


A Consequence of Consumption

by ironlotus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Maybe even canon-typical slow burn?, Minor use or paraphrase of dialogue from the show, Murder Harem, Or Is he?, POV Alternating, Really it’s a very slow burn, Slow Burn, Someone Help Will Graham, Will just wants to be left alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-10 08:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 174,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20524820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironlotus/pseuds/ironlotus
Summary: Despite the chaos, Lounds’ voice cut through like the ring of a bell, sharp and high. “Mr. Graham,” Lounds shouted, “didn’t they find you at his table?”Crawford repeated “no further questions” like a mantra, at the top of his lungs; the way a child would, in combination with ears covered and eyes screwed shut, to block out an undesirable sound.“Did you eat them?” Lounds yelled over the din.In which Will Graham survives an abduction by a serial killer, only to find that somehow he's garnered the interest of at least one more.Updates every other Thursday night (GMT-4).Now with a podfic!Find it here!





	1. A One Mr. Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first Hannibal fic. There are so many beautifully written fics out there already, it's an intimidating pool to dive into. But behold, my humble contribution. Feedback appreciated. Beta’d after the first.
> 
> This chapter is a 17-minute read, approximately.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter One

A One Mr. Will Graham

-+-

Will closed the front door behind him, the heavy breathing of the mutts and the clicking of their claws on the wooden floors inside the house putting a small smile on his face. “I’ll be back in a few hours, guys,” he called as he locked the front door, then the storm door. A new habit for him. His home in Wolf Trap, always like a boat at sea, distant and isolated, had felt like a refuge for as long as he’d lived there. Locking the doors felt wrong, antithetical to that, but it had become necessary.

The drive to the office, though longer than an hour, passed in the blink of an eye. Time had been getting away from him lately. He pulled up in front of a beautiful Baltimore brownstone, its manicured hedges all red and gold, its well-maintained facade giving him the impression of wealth and value placed on presentation. It _was_ a nice neighborhood. Anyone would be able to tell with just a look at the cars parked along the street or the grandeur of the buildings. But Will being Will, his observations surpassed the superficial layer, the simple appearances of things. The fact that this office belonged to a psychiatrist, with _this_ kind of location, told him a lot.

He parked and proceeded to sit in his car for a few minutes. Ambled up the stairs to the door, then loitered there, watching his breath condense in the cooling fall evening air, float up and fog up his glasses, for a few more. Eventually, he decided he couldn’t put this off any longer. His appointment time had already passed by nearly fifteen minutes. He should just—just _go in_.

The front door yielded readily to his touch, heavy but on well-oiled hinges, swinging open like an arm opening for a hug. It set his teeth on edge. The small waiting room, richly decorated, with classical art on the walls and a bouquet of fresh flowers on the little half-table against the wall, didn’t suit his image of what an FBI-appointed psychiatrist’s office should look like any more than the building or the neighborhood it lived in. He wanted to explore it, just to let a few more seconds pass, but as it turned out, he didn’t have the chance; someone had heard him, and the door to the office opened.

_Beautiful._

The thought surprised him, because Will, who always studiously avoided looking at people for fear of what _looking_ would reveal, never paid attention to physical aesthetics. At least, not usually, and not on first impressions. _Usually_, it took him months to notice that he found someone attractive, and by then he’d ruined their impression of him enough to make any further encounters unlikely.

“Mr. Graham?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, still halfway to the exit, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and moving his sightline to the crease of a maroon lapel just in proximity to where the crisp white shirt collar peeked out from beneath it.

“It can be a little difficult to find. Come in.”

Beyond the door, the office lived up to the expectations set by the exterior and the waiting room. Warm, rich colors, dark wood, ceiling height windows, a mezzanine lined with packed bookshelves. More art, and more unsettling art pieces than he would expect a shrink to pick out for a room that should, probably, be intended to feel relaxing. In fact, the room seemed to exude _power_, and _intimidation_ more than relaxation and welcoming.

“It’s quite an office,” he said, feeling the inanity of the comment on his tongue.

“I think so too. Maybe I’ll find somewhere else for us to meet next time?”

This comment perturbed him on two fronts: one, the expectation for a future meeting; and two, the offer to change venue. That seemed— “You got another office somewhere?”

“I don’t have an office at all. This one is a loaner. I don’t see private patients.”

Will blinked. At least it made sense to him now, why the room and the psychiatrist didn’t seem to jive. Dr. Bloom had a softness about her that felt incongruous here. A male psychiatrist then. Someone older. Wealthy, with a wealthy clientele. Someone who valued the impression he left on others more than their comfort around him. A selfish person, though he would take care not to seem so; this office had been arranged to suit _him_, rather than his patients— 

He shook his head. “Doctor Bloom—”

She motioned to a seat across from her, a black leather chair, set a comfortable distance opposite one just like it. Will obeyed the request implicit in the gesture, eyes riveted on the curves of her legs as she crossed them. Her shoes were nice; black heels, the backs of them cupping her shapely ankles.

“I don’t know why I’m here. You don’t see private patients? I don’t know why _either _of us are here,” he finished lamely.

Dr. Bloom blinked, dark lashes fanning over her cheeks, brow furrowing over her blue eyes—_nope, look away_—when they opened once more. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience, Mr. Graham—”

He held up a hand, shaking his head again. “Uh, just Will. And let me rephrase. I know _why_ I’m here. I’m here to soothe Jack Crawford’s conscience, so he can get his beauty sleep. So he’ll stop calling and nagging at me. I don’t understand what he thinks I’ll get out of this.”

She pursed her lips. “I expect he believes that therapy will help you cope with the trauma of what you lived through.”

“I think he doesn’t care about that as much as he cares that he can say he set the wheels in motion, in case I do take to therapy after all.” He paused. “Which I won’t, by the way.”

He slouched in his seat, eyes skittering around the room until they landed on the desk in the center of it. Something glimmered in the light and caught his attention. Was that a _scalpel?_

“How long have you known Jack Crawford?” She asked, instead of trying to defend the man.

“Long enough to know everything about him that I need to.” She remained silent, waiting for clarification. But Will didn’t pay a lot of attention to social mores. The more abrasive he made himself, the less people bothered him. He could sit in an uncomfortable silence as long as he needed to.

“I was under the impression you met when—”

“At the raid, yeah.” Again, he cut her off, but then offered no more.

“And you already know everything you need to know about him.”

He grunted. “You don’t have a private practice. Are you seeing me as a favor to him, then?”

Dr. Bloom’s lips twitched downward, one of her hands squeezed in her lap. Not anger—he’d made her uncomfortable. “We often work together. I teach at Georgetown, consult with him at the FBI as a criminal profiler when they ask me to.”

Will nodded, suspicions confirmed. “You worked the case.”

“I did,” she agreed. Silence fell once more between them. “We weren’t expecting to find anyone living.”

He let out a slow exhalation. If he could keep this conversation to the particulars of the case, what remained of their time together would go smoothly, and he could bow out at the end and never suffer through this again. Then again, his involvement meant it would be easier for her to ask those probing questions, to turn the focus back to him.

“Therapy doesn’t work on me,” he announced, apropos of nothing. “I know all the tricks. It doesn’t work.”

“Maybe it doesn’t work because you don’t let it,” she offered, a little smile curving her lips up toward a fetching dimple in her cheek.

“Tomatoes, tomahtoes.” He pushed up his glasses.

“Would you be willing to talk about the case, if we leave you out of it?” she asked.

He knew her angle. Refer to it the same way he did—’the case’ rather than ‘your traumatic experience’—to give the illusion of ‘leaving him out of it,’ then discuss it from his _subjective _point of view, which would reveal a lot about how he _felt_ about what happened.

He could sit and stew in silence for the remainder of the hour, he knew that. But her face expressed such kind concern, such interest in his well-being, that he felt disposed to make this experience even just a little less painful for her than it must already be. “I mean…” He sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine.”

She could probably tell he would wait for her to prompt him before speaking again, but she took her time in formulating her next question. Her foot jiggled up and down once as she studied him. Will returned his gaze to the desk. _Definitely a scalpel_. A surgeon, or an artist? _Probably both._

“How long were you with him?”

Of all the places to choose to start. “Uh—not long. A week. Week and a half, maybe.”

She nodded, considering that information. “He didn’t keep any of his victims that long?”

He heard the implied ‘other’ before ‘victims’, knew that she saw him as one of their number, but silently thanked her for not counting him among them aloud. “He didn’t keep them at all.”

“When we were working on the profile, his detachment to his victims is one thing we kept cycling back to. They weren’t even human in his eyes, were they?”

Will blinked. “What?”

Her lips pursed again, but this time she tilted her head. The ankle jiggled again. He didn’t like how she was trying to puzzle him out. “He kept them alive, but encouraged decomposition. He prolonged their suffering.” Her head righted, then tilted the other way. “Someone who doesn’t value people, doesn’t see them as people. We were shocked that he—we didn’t expect to find anyone but him in that house.”

“Is he—” Will swallowed, throat working against the rising lump within it. “Did he say those things…?”

Dr. Bloom shook her head, and the relief must have shown on his face for the way she pressed her lips together. “No. He hasn’t said a word since we took him into custody.”

Will felt the tension drain from him. “How did you end up finding him?” he asked.

She hesitated. “I shouldn’t comment on an ongoing investigation, but for the sake of continuing this conversation, I’ll remind you that doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways,” the last, delivered on a little smile. He nodded. Assured of his discretion, she uncrossed her legs, settling her elbows onto her knees and leaning forward, as though divulging a secret.

This kind of bad behaviour wouldn’t be usual for her, then. A straight arrow, maybe rigidly so.

“One of the victims hadn’t decomposed as much as the others yet; much easier to identify. When we found out he’d gone missing from a pharmacy, that he was a diabetic, one of the techs floated the idea that he’d been using the sugar water as a chemical restraint. Diabetic comas. It didn’t take much work from there.”

Will held back his scoff, opted for a grunt instead. Granted the trouble would have been finding the crime scene in the first place, hidden as it was in the wood. He wouldn’t have taken many measures to conceal evidence apart from that. Will should be grateful that they found the garden when they did; he couldn’t be sure how long he would have stayed safe in that house.

“Stammets—” he started, shifted in his seat. “That’s not his pathology. He doesn’t _hate_ people, he—”

He broke off, crossing and uncrossing his arms, averting his eyes. Dr. Bloom said nothing, and her silence allowed him to pick up the thread a minute later. “He doesn’t _understand_ them. People are like shadows to him, amorphous and ever-present, unnecessary but _there_.”

A strange smile twisted on Dr. Bloom’s lips, and his glued themselves closed. She saw his discomfort. “I’m sorry. It’s the metaphor.” Humour colored her voice. “I only know one other person who uses metaphors like that in conversation.”

Will nodded, but his thoughts had strayed back to the topic at hand, and despite all his resolutions to offer as little as possible, he found he couldn’t go on without making himself, and therefore Stammets, clear. To write the man off as hateful of his fellow man felt misguided to the point of rudeness. “It’s just, that’s how he sees them. He doesn’t get them. But he—he understands connection. He _craves_ connection. The mushrooms, by planting those victims in his garden, he connects them to one another the best way he knows. The mushrooms.”

He couldn’t explain it any more eloquently than that, so he gave up trying.

“Did he say those things?” she asked, her question an echo of his not minutes before.

“No, not—” He crossed his arms again. Stammets hadn’t said much during the time Will had stayed with him. He had explained about the mushrooms, though. His words reverberated in the cavern of Will’s skull. _If you walk through a field of mycelium they know you are there. They know you are there. The spores reach for you as you walk by. _“No.”

“He must have said something for you to reach that conclusion.”

She didn’t believe him? “He did say _something_,” he relented. “But that was days after I’d figured him out.”

Her eyebrows rose. She opened her mouth to say something else, but the clock chimed the hour before she could get out a sound. “That’s time,” she smiled, standing. “Not too horrible, I hope?”

“Not too horrible,” he agreed. Granted, he’d shown up about fifteen minutes late and steered the conversation away from the hard questions. He got out of the chair and walked over to the window, pulling the curtain back just enough to be able to peek through.

All clear.

He turned around and there she stood, laughter written in the lines around her eyes, watching him.

“It’s a uh—a precaution. Ever since the press conference.”

“Ah.”

The press conference. Another disastrous idea of Jack’s. “Had to learn to lock my doors at home, too,” he let the little laugh out past his lips, then immediately regretted it when he saw her sudden frown.

Oh. That was stupid.

Lock the doors from a bad experience at a press conference. Not from being kidnapped by a serial killer.

“Can I ask just—” she took a tentative step closer, hand extended as though about to touch her fingers to his arm, but she apparently thought better of it just in time, and fell silent.

He sighed. “Go ahead. Just one. For free.”

“Why did he decide to take you? You don’t fit his victim profile.”

A question whose answer would remain secret as long as he lived, if he had anything to say about it. “I don’t know. I barely said anything to him before he knocked me out.”

“Barely?”

“I think all I got out was, ‘wait, my dogs.’ Then he beaned me.” He laughed, and this time Dr. Bloom joined in.

“Would you talk to him again for us? He might open up to you.”

“I believe I said ‘just one,’ Doctor Bloom.”

She laughed again, relenting. “Okay. But I do have one more. Not about the case.” She waited, and when he didn’t protest, asked, “will we be meeting again next week?”

“Uh—” he pushed his glasses up on his nose, gaze flitting around the room until it landed on a chaise, set off to the side. _Fulfilling an expectation, but discouraging its use_. “Thanks, but I think I’m good.”

Her voice was no less warm when she extended her hand to shake his and said, “well, if you ever change your mind, you have my card.”

-+-

When Alana Bloom asked him if she could borrow his office, it took him all of three seconds to weigh the possible risks and benefits before he agreed. “If I may ask why…?”

“I’m not taking patients, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she laughed, bringing the bottle of his home-brewed beer up to her lips and taking a sip, eyes sparkling coyly at him. “It’s for a case I’m working.”

This told him everything he needed to know. Alana was working exactly _one_ case at present; the case of Eldon Stammets, the Mushroom Man. Hannibal inwardly frowned at the moniker—the media loved their alliterative and sensationalist killer names, after all. But Eldon Stammets was safely behind bars; Alana would not need to borrow Hannibal’s office to meet him. That left only one other option: his lone survivor, found in a stupor at Stammets’ dinner table when the FBI raided his home; a one Mr. Will Graham.

He tidied his office the day of her appointment, removing anything remotely incriminating. Though he highly doubted if she would do any snooping in his absence, Hannibal’s caution had served him well over the many years of his career. As he put the final polish on the room, walking through to check for anything he’d missed, he toyed absently with the idea of placing a recorder under the patient’s seat. Alana had denied taking on new patients; that meant that this meeting with Mr. Graham would be a mere conversation, and not subject to doctor-patient confidentiality. _It is unlikely_, he thought, _that this man will have anything of value to say. _But, being peripherally interested in Stammets, he decided in favor of the recording regardless.

When he played it back, he found himself thanking his foresight. He regretted that Alana treated the meeting as a session, that, though inadvertently, he had made a liar of her. But this regret passed quickly, far overshadowed by the excitement brewing in his gut. Because, though what Mr. Graham revealed about Stammets rendered the killer irredeemably _boring_, what Mr. Graham revealed of himself made him unutterably _interesting_.

His defensiveness, almost to the level of taking personal affront at Alana’s misreading of Stammets’ motivations, stopped Hannibal’s semi-distracted listen of the recording and made him rewind to hear it again from the start.

Mr. Graham gave a lot about himself away, despite the few words he spoke throughout their session. What struck Hannibal on the second hearing, were the hints he dropped about _knowing_ people. Jack Crawford, Eldon Stammets. Even Alana, to an extent. His fluency in playing her increased as the session progressed. The delicious little hint he dropped about locking his doors, and how it had to do with a press conference rather than an abduction... it raised so many questions that Hannibal could not repress his delight.

Logic dictated that Hannibal’s next step should be to watch whatever press conference it was that had changed Mr. Graham’s perception of his personal safety more than an abduction by a serial killer. Luckily, the internet yielded exactly what he was looking for.

It was a three-minute long clip. He recognized Crawford immediately. Though he had never worked with the man, he had seen his picture often enough on TattleCrime, usually accompanying an article denouncing the FBI as a bunch of incompetents. A few others were present from the Bureau, but nobody particularly of note. His eyes kept coming back to the sullen-looking and disheveled yet handsome man standing at the back of the little crowd before the microphones. _A Botticelli angel brought to life_, he mused, gorging himself on the delightful brown curls, the blue eyes, so startling in their clarity. And the expression of derision and disgust on his face as the questions and answers wore on. This would be Mr. Graham then.

Hannibal surmised that Mr. Graham had only participated in this press conference due to some kind of pressure from the man at the helm, and likely only on a condition of not having to say a word. Jack Crawford probably thought it would make good optics for the BAU, to show off the man they rescued from the clutches of evil. An infantile grasp for approval from the masses.

The whole video would have been a waste of time, unexpected pleasure at an attractive face aside, were it not for the last five seconds of the video. These five seconds netted the website an additional fifteen views at the very least, and all from the tablet in Hannibal’s lap.

Jack Crawford pointed at a reporter, utter contempt writ on his face for all to see. The reporter stood, red curls bobbing.

“Freddie Lounds, TattleCrime,” she announced. He made a gesture for her to _get on with it_. “Mr. Graham—”

Crawford interrupted immediately. “There will be no further questions,” he boomed, ushering the now conspicuous man in the background away from the podium. The room burst into a chaos of questions, reporters jumping to their feet.

Hannibal found out later that Graham’s name had only been made general knowledge when Miss Lounds exposed it; he had been an unnamed survivor in any press releases prior. Trust Lounds’ reporting to unearth the truly interesting part of the story. Thanks to her efforts, Will Graham became a common enough name that Hannibal had heard it even before Alana requested the use of his office.

Despite the chaos in the room, Lounds’ voice cut through like the ring of a bell, sharp and high. “Mr. Graham,” Lounds shouted, “didn’t they find you at Stammets’ table?”

Jack Crawford held an arm out as though the gesture would fend off further inquiry, repeating “no further questions” at the top of his lungs; the way a child would, in combination with ears covered and eyes screwed shut, to block out an undesirable sound.

“Did you eat them? Did you eat the mushrooms?” Lounds yelled over the din.

Will Graham’s eyebrows jumped into his hairline, and his mouth popped open to speak.

Jack Crawford’s hand moved from Mr. Graham’s back to his arm, and at his sharp look and a muttered word, the blue-eyed man fell silent.

And then, the pièce de résistance.

Will’s shoulders shrugged, and his mouth moved, though the sound was inaudible to the camera filming them.

After reviewing the video a surplus of times, Hannibal felt reasonably certain that the words he mouthed were, ‘well, I,’ just before turning his head and cutting off the view of his lips.

What logical endings could there possibly be to that brief utterance?

‘Well, I didn’t.’

‘Well, I did.’

Hannibal’s own lips curled upwards as he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

He could wager a guess as to which of the two it was.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you found this a little bit interesting and want to read more. If you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them! Also, if you have any recommended tags that might help get this fic a little more love, let me know!
> 
> Comments make Will dream of the Ravenstag, Kudos send him out driving on puppy patrol.


	2. It's what you don't say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, you totally blew me away! I always thought that the Hannibal fandom was active, but I didn't realize _how_ deliciously active it was. I made a few minor changes to the last chapter, but nothing that affects the plot. Here is the next chapter-- enjoy!
> 
> Approximately a 22-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Two

It’s what you don’t say.

-+-

“Well?” Jack asked in lieu of a greeting. He stood behind his desk in a dark grey suit and power tie, gesturing for her to sit across from him. Alana liked the style of his office; much less stuffy than she had expected the first time she visited, though she always noted the startling lack of personal touches on the desk or the walls.

“Well,” she answered, lowering herself to the edge of the chair and crossing her legs at the ankle. “He’s rather interesting.”

Jack grunted, but didn’t seem to appreciate her easy humor. “I didn’t send him to you so that you could find him interesting, Doctor Bloom. Did he say anything useful?”

She hated when he did that. Jack Crawford could assume such a condescending tone at times. It surprised her when she learned that he didn’t have any children; with that tone of voice, one would assume he’d been practicing it on them for years.

“There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, Jack,” she reminded him, her tone all the gentler, giving him a dose of his own medicine.

He waved dismissively with one hand, drummed his fingers on the desk with the other. “Get his permission to talk about it, then.” Alana shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Jack noticed her hesitation and tapped the speaker function on his phone. “Here, I’ll get him on the line.”

She noticed that he didn’t need to look the phone number up—his fingers navigated the dial pad with the ease of routine. Will hadn’t been exaggerating, then: unless Jack had a magnificent memory for numbers, he had probably been calling the poor man fairly often.

_To nag_, she remembered, and couldn’t repress the uptick in her lips at the thought. Yes, she had found him interesting. And on some level, she felt grateful that he hadn’t wanted to see her again—_professionally_. But he had her card, had her number. A shy, little part of her hoped he might use it.

The phone rang all of six times before, just as it should be rerouting to voicemail, the line connected.

“Jack. What can I do for you _now?”_

“Will Graham. I have Doctor Bloom here. She tells me that you had some insights to share about the case, about Eldon Stammets.”

Silence, broken by the barking of a dog. Will’s voice sighed, breath like static on the line. “I thought you felt strongly about confidentiality, Doctor Bloom.”

“I may have inferred some things,” Jack said, rushing to her defense. “All she said was—”

Alana caught Jack’s eye, staring him down and mouthing ‘no’, but he ignored her nonverbal pleas and pressed forward.

“—that she found you interesting.”

A yip sounded—another dog?—but Will Graham remained silent. Just as reticent over the phone as in person, she decided, though the silence felt much more painful when she didn’t have him there, twitching in front of her, as a distraction.

“Graham?”

He grunted. “Go ahead. Discuss whatever you like.”

“Will,” she cut in before Jack could say anything further or disconnect the line, as his finger sat poised over the phone to do. “You don’t have to approve it, if it makes you uncomfortable. This is not how I go about obtaining consent,” she glanced at Jack as she said this. His brow twitched in displeasure. People probably didn’t undermine him so openly with any degree of regularity.

“You need me to sign something? Jack has my fax.”

“Will!” she called, sensing his desire to hang up. “May I call you later?”

“Um—” This, followed by a whoosh of air as he breathed a sigh into the receiver. “Yeah. Sure. That’s fine.”

“Thank you, Will.”

“Expect the fax by the morning,” Jack added. Will hung up the very next second.

“You seem to have a way with him, Jack,” Alana murmured, leaning back in her chair. A _domineering_ way. It seemed to her that Will had given up trying to put his foot down in the face of Jack’s demands. He sounded tired, listless. Even having read his statement, nobody knew exactly what he’d been through at Stammets’ hands. She could conjure up a picture, though. Alana just hoped he’d find a way to process and cope with his experience, though she would bet that he’d opt for avoidance instead. She worried her lip; she worried about him.

“He can be difficult to handle,” Jack groused, pulling an orange sticky note from the top of the stack and writing down a number there. “His fax.”

How did he have that memorized too? _Maybe he really_ is_ good with numbers._

He handed her the paper. Alana folded it tidily in half before tucking it into her pocket.

“Now that we have his approval, what did he say?” Jack insisted, folding his hands together over his belly as he too reclined into his seat.

She considered whether she should delay until she’d received the release to discuss him in writing. Will gave his verbal consent, but grudgingly, and he could always change his mind between now and then. Something told her that Jack would railroad over him until he finally relented and signed anyway. So, though she still disliked this manner of doing things, she too relented in the face of Jack’s obstinacy. “He seemed surprised that we caught Stammets at all. He said we misunderstood his pathology.”

After Will had left her office, Alana made a beeline to her laptop. She felt silly at the time, googling him, but the results that turned up were rather interesting: a few articles written about him recently, mostly speculative pieces about what terrors he must have experienced at Stammets’ hands. A few even trashier articles from TattleCrime, but she didn’t even bother reading the headlines for those. She found a business associated with his name, too; something about machine and motor repair, with a sparse, utilitarian website. She had noticed his woodsy attire, but never got much of a look at his hands. Were they a workman’s hands, then?

But she could find nothing at all about a history in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry. No licenses registered to his name or associated with his current address. This presented her with a puzzle, then. That phrase, ‘that’s not his pathology,’ had her near-convinced that he _must_ have some experience in those fields. But apparently not. His insistence about Stammets in spite of the requisite training, though, she found intensely curious.

Not so for Jack. Predictably, he didn’t take well to being told he was wrong. “Well, we _caught_ the bastard, couldn’t have been too far off the mark,” he protested.

“I based my profile of Stammets on the perception of him as disdaining his victims, that he used them as fertilizer because he saw them as no more than the dirt under his feet.” Her profile had much more to it than that, of course, but here lay the salient point. “Will is saying that their deaths were incidental. Stammets wanted to connect them—via the mushrooms, the mycelium. In his eyes, he did them a service.”

Jack chewed on this for a while. “Stammets can be chatty when he wants to, I guess.”

“That’s the funny thing about it, Jack. According to Will, Stammets didn’t say much at all. And Will had figured it all out _days_ before the man said anything about it.”

They both knew from Will’s statement that he had spent the entirety of his stay with Stammets in one of three rooms of the house: bedroom, bathroom, dining room. There had been no DNA evidence to indicate his presence elsewhere, including at the burial site. This meant that Will had gleaned whatever he had from Stammets’ mostly silent company alone, without any exposure to his garden at all.

“He’s said he has you all figured out too,” she laughed. “He seems to have a very keen insight. And a much deeper understanding of the subject than I initially thought.”

She received a low hum in response. “Never mind the fax, Doctor Bloom,” Jack said at length. “I’ll take it to him tomorrow morning to sign.”

“Take it? In person?”

Jack nodded, and seemed to remain deep in thought when Alana, still baffled, left the office. She couldn’t be sure what preoccupied him so, but somewhere in her gut, she had a feeling it wouldn’t bode well for Will Graham.

-+-

_Two Months Later_

-+-

Will blinked, the world that had faded out of the edges of his vision coloring back in. Winston’s cold nose pressed against his knee through the rip in his jeans, a gentle reminder that the rest of the pack would be getting up soon. Will moaned, stretching as he stood, the stale scent of old sweat rising to his nose as he raised his arms over his head.

_A shower. Then see to the mutts._

He’d fallen asleep on the couch, not six steps from the bed which took pride of place against the back wall of the living room. The house, much bigger than he needed when he bought it, felt too big still, even as his family expanded from a three-dog household to a seven-dog one. The bedrooms upstairs he kept shut, cleaning them of dust and checking the window seals every few months or so. Mostly, he lived in the living room and kitchen, and spent the majority of his working hours in the backyard shed.

How long he sat on the couch after waking, he couldn’t be sure. Time… ever since he’d returned from Stammets’ place, time had taken on an increasingly relative quality. It passed as quickly or slowly as it wanted to, and Will sat, a cork bobbing on the water, helpless but to follow its swells. Winston, who had probably been either an accountant or an administrative assistant for a high-level politician in a past life, kept him on track. The dogs had yet to miss a meal or a walk, thanks to the shaggy mutt’s diligent oversight.

Even if the rest ended up rehomed, as distant and unlikely a prospect as it may be, he would never give up Winston.

Knees creaking as he climbed the stairs to the bathroom, the only room on the upper level that saw regular use, Will felt every year of his age. The hot shower would help. Maybe he should turn the temperature in the house up too. Winter had come, and though it had yet to snow, the chill in the air permeated the glass of the windows and infiltrated his home.

The mutts were waiting patiently, all in a line, when he finally returned to the living room. A hot shower, a fresh change of clothes, and his warmest gloves in hand, he was finally ready to tend to their needs. The lot of them jetted out into the yard the moment he pushed the door ajar, most of them wriggling to freedom before he’d gotten it completely open.

Will donned his coat, scarf, and hat, then fiddled with the thermostat as his morning brew percolated in the kitchen. By the time the coffee, piping hot, filled the thermos in his gloved hand, his outerwear had warmed enough for him to brave the cold.

He didn’t venture past the edge of his porch. Not just yet. He leaned against the rail, eyes on the dogs as they chased each other and played on the lawn, a contentment brimming in his chest.

Things were good.

As he stepped down onto the unpaved but well-worn path in the grass, ready to exercise his pack, take them on a long morning constitutional, a bitter wind blew in from the north. It carried ominous, dark clouds on its current; maybe the incoming storm would bring the snow.

They had nearly made the tree line, not minutes into the walk, when his phone started vibrating in his pocket. He fumbled for it with gloved fingers, flipping the phone right-side up in his hand so he could see the caller ID.

Jack.

_Ugh_. He hadn’t heard from Jack since the man had come by on an impromptu house-call, consent to release information in hand, ready to be signed and returned to Dr. Bloom. _Why hadn’t they just faxed it?_ It made for an awkward visit, made the more awkward by the stilted conversation that followed.

His phone rang again.

Maybe he should just send the call to voicemail. But Jack learned early on that Will never listened to voice messages; he’d just hang up and call again. Better to rip the band aid off and find out what the man wanted.

“Jack,” he greeted, the name releasing his breath as a puff of steam, his fingers already numbing inside his gloves, resentful of the exposure to the cold.

“Graham,” came the booming reply, loud enough for Will to wrench the receiver from his ear and fumble for the volume buttons. “How’ve you been?”

“Uh, well, you know…”

“Good. Good.”

So much for social niceties. Jack could make things awkward as well as Will could. Dogs still yapping around him, they brushed against his legs in excitement. A few more steps and they’d be entering the wood. Will just hoped that this would mean his signal would fail and the call would drop. He glanced down at the screen, hoping for a confirmation of this fantasy, but to no avail. Five bars, still.

“What time does your mail come in?”

An odd question. “Around eleven, usually. Why?”

“When was the last time you checked it?”

Buster circled tightly around his leg, causing Will to stumble in his step. He gave the little terrier a sharp _tsk_ and shooed him off before answering. “Couple days ago. What’s going on?”

“I think I should come see you.”

Will blinked. _Why?_ “I’m really busy today, Jack. Why? What’s going on?”

“Stammets finally decided to open up,” he said after a marked pause. Debating whether to say anything at all, probably.

Will stopped walking, a twig breaking under his footfall, cutting the silence with a _snap_. His heart squeezed in his chest. “Oh?” he couldn’t manage anything more substantial than that. If Stammets had started talking—

“Not to us, though,” Jack sighed. “He sent a letter to your address three days ago. Should be getting to you today, if it hasn’t reached you already.”

On the one hand, the tight ball of anxiety closing off his throat melted at the knowledge that Stammets remained reticent; on the other, a rising fear took its place as he imagined what the letter contained. Inmates didn’t have the right to privacy in correspondence, outside of official exchanges with doctors or lawyers.

“You read it?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. His eyes landed on the trunk of a barren tree and his gaze stayed there, unseeing, trying to anchor his reality.

“Mmm.” Jack took a breath and held it before starting again. “Look, if today is no good—”

“I could swing by the Bureau tomorrow, we could grab a bite to eat?” Will offered. “Have some errands to do around there, anyway.”

“Alright. But you know you can call me or Doctor Bloom if you need to before then, right?”

“This is sounding awfully ominous, Jack.” His heart skittered, palms and the backs of his knees breaking out in a clammy sweat. The chill in the air seeped into his bones, icing him over inside and out.

“We’re just concerned about you. You’ve been disconnected from this whole thing for a while.”

“It wasn’t going to be forever. I knew that. There’s still the trial.”

“Like I said, don’t hesitate to call. You still got Bloom’s card?”

Actually, he had her number saved in his ‘favorite contacts’ list. They hadn’t talked much, but when they did, they never discussed the case. He hadn’t gotten it together enough to ask her out yet, but some of their exchanges were markedly social in nature. He had hope.

“Yeah, I have it.”

“Good. Good.” They settled on a time and a place—1300 at an IHop off the I-95—before Jack, on another heavy sigh, hung up.

Will tucked his phone into his pocket, curled fingers following it in and burying into the warmth and protection from the wind. The snot had frozen in his nose, which would be bright red by now. Cheeks and chin too, under his stubble. He checked that all the dogs were accounted for, then studied the landscape in the wood to be sure he knew _exactly _where they were. This little track he’d worn into the underbrush took them on about a two-mile loop around and to the back of his property.

He didn’t have the patience for two miles. With a sharp whistle he called the mutts to heel, and though they expressed some confusion about the doubling back, they kept pace with him as he maneuvered to the house at a good clip. They could play out in the yard, if they wanted.

Will had some business with his mailbox.

He pulled his beat-up Volvo into an empty spot at the back of the IHop parking lot five minutes after the promised meeting time. This would bother Jack, of course; he’d view it as a power play. How he could imagine Will as assertive or self-assured enough to attempt anything like that against _Jack Crawford,_ head of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, though, escaped him.

Will remembered to put his glasses on just before he tumbled in through the door, and they fogged over immediately with the heat of his breath. Jack and Dr. Bloom were seated in an isolated booth in the back, squished together on the same side of the table, _just _too narrow to be comfortable. The apology tumbled from his lips the second Will reached the booth, collapsing onto the bench opposite them. “Traffic from Wolf Trap took longer than I planned,” he mumbled, pulling off his hat and gloves.

“Don’t worry about it. We ordered already,” Jack said, raising his eyes from his phone in a quick greeting before he finished tapping out whatever email kept him busy. _You make me wait; I make you wait._ Will almost laughed.

Dr. Bloom’s hello, by contrast, had the coziness and pleasantness of a low fire in the hearth, and her soft, even voice warmed him over, thawing the winter off his cheeks. “Pick something out, quick,” she advised, a conspiratorial tone to match the charm of her smile. “The waiter should be back with the water soon; if you get your order in now, it might come out with ours.”

Eggs, hash browns, bacon, and a vat of coffee. By the time the waiter set _two_ empty mugs and glasses of water, and a pitcher of a dark brew on the table—Jack had evidently not seen fit to ask for Will’s share as well—Will had voiced his order, and Jack had finished posturing.

Jack picked up the pitcher and poured out into his and Dr. Bloom’s mugs. “Did you get it?”

_Ah, straight to business_.

Will nodded.

After Jack called yesterday, he’d left his dogs unsupervised in the yard as he jogged down the length of his driveway to the mailbox. Except for a supermarket flyer and a business card advertising cleaning services, which had no postage and had probably been stuck there illegally, the plain white envelope bearing Stammets’ name was the only thing in the box.

The return address had been marked, “Eldon Stammets, c/o Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane”. He’d slid his finger under the flap, ready to rip it open on the spot, before changing his mind and taking the precious cargo with him back to the house. The dogs tagged after his heels as he passed by, and he forced himself to set the letter down on his entry table so he could take the time to wipe seven sets of muddy paws before letting them back inside.

Any other eyes reading the letter wouldn’t be able to get much out of it. Stammets used coded language, made veiled references to conversations they had during Will’s stay at his house. The last few lines, though… they left him shivering, a simultaneous thrill and self-disgust rushing through his veins. Good that he had seen to the dogs then, in retrospect. He wouldn’t have been able to get off the couch to wipe them off after reading the letter, would have cursed himself to finding dried muddy bits everywhere for days afterward.

“_Well_?”

Jack must be having a bad day. Will had seen him curt, but this surpassed all his prior experience with the man. It would be another crime scene, then, something not so cut-and-dry as the Mushroom Man case turned out to be. Either a scene, or the politics around one.

Dr. Bloom tossed a glare in Jack’s direction before leaning forward across the table, her prettily manicured hands reaching for his before stopping, palms down on the tabletop in entreaty, a fingerbreadth away from his. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugged, opened his mouth to speak, but the waiter—_nametag says ‘Jim’, acne, stayed out partying much too late last night_—stopped beside the table with water and a mug for Will, and three plates of steaming food. Recognition sparkled in his eyes when they alighted on Will’s face. _Jim’s probably not even his real name_, Will decided, ducking to break eye-contact, _he left for work late and had to borrow someone else’s nametag._

‘Jim’ swallowed hard before asking, awe in his voice, “Are—are you Will Graham?”

“Scram, kid,” Jack barked.

Jim obeyed immediately, though he tossed a few glances over his shoulder at Will on his way back to the kitchen.

_Ah_.

The IHop sat close enough to Quantico that the customer base probably largely consisted of FBI agents. This kid was a storm-chaser of a different sort. He probably had long hearing and a habit of writing down what he heard. Will frowned, making a mental note to check TattleCrime later. Ten bucks said a cellphone snapshot of him, Bloom, and Crawford, looking cozy over pancakes, would find its way to the home page.

“Will?” Alana prompted, when the coast had cleared.

“I’m—well, it didn’t say anything I didn’t already know, I guess.”

Alana and Jack looked at each other for a moment, some silent communication between them exchanged. Jack assumed a meditative tone when he asked, “what’s his angle?”

Will’s eyes wandered as he considered how to answer. He shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth just as his eyes passed over the TV screen, set to a local news channel. The headline provided him a port in the storm, a chance to say nothing at all: BSHCI Inmate Confesses to Chesapeake Ripper Killings.

“Connection,” Will mumbled around his food. A gulp of water cleared his mouth. He added, “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I told you all this before.”

Jack grunted; Dr. Bloom’s brows furrowed in concern.

Will saw her red lips part, ready to say something caring no doubt, and barreled ahead over her. This would probably be his best shot to redirect the conversation cleanly. “I just hope you don’t misread the guy that confessed to the Ripper killings, too.”

“_Excuse me_?” Jack demanded, a dangerous edge in his silky-smooth voice. “How do you know about _that_?”

Will gestured with his fork at the TV screen. Both Jack and Dr. Bloom turned over their shoulders to see the headline cycle through once more. Their disparate reactions thrilled Will: Jack exploded, a “God _damn _it!” accompanied with an ineffectual fist slamming against the upholstered back of the booth. By contrast, Dr. Bloom’s lips pinched and pursed in displeasure, and the name “Frederick” came out on a groan, all familiar disappointment.

“I don’t know who they got to confess to it—” but just as he said the words, the closed captions on the screen put out a name. Abel Gideon. That felt familiar. Will rifled through his mental filing cabinet, blinked a few times when he hit on the memory. A few years back—a surgeon, and for some domestic, hackneyed thing, like killing his family after they’d sat down for dinner over Easter… no, no. Thanksgiving.

_Yeah, no. _

“Gideon’s not your Ripper, Jack.”

Jack’s glare swiveled from the screen to Will’s face, pinning him down with its weight. “And you know this _how_?”

Will worked his jaw to keep from grinning. Jack had been successfully redirected. If he could shovel the rest of this meal down quickly enough, he might be able to plead his errand and make an exit before the line of conversation derailed to dangerous ground again.

“I remember Gideon’s arrest. They splattered it all over the news. Pictures, everything.”

“Freddie Lounds—” the way Jack’s voice drew out the diphthong charged it with negativity, “—has a bad habit of sneaking into crime scenes and publishing information she has no right to know.”

Will’s lips ticked upward in a pained smile. He didn’t need the reminder.

“As Will would know,” Dr. Bloom chimed in, echoing his thoughts, conciliatory hand reaching across the table again, brows wide in silent censure as she stared Jack down.

“The Ripper’s work has _also_ been on the news,” Will continued.

“His _work_?” Jack bristled. “Is he an artist, now?”

“That’s how he sees himself, yeah. Murder, his medium.” He pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “His _tableaux _tell a story, send a message. Gideon’s kills by comparison lacked for even a modicum of artistry.” After a beat, he pulled out his phone and searched for Gideon. A TattleCrime article about the Thanksgiving murder scene showed up as the first sponsored result. _Gotta hand it to Lounds, the woman knows how to market_. He flipped his phone around so Jack could see it. “_This_—” he gestured at the image, “—is not _that_.”

Silence descended on the trio, Dr. Bloom and Jack in contemplation, while Will’s quiet came as a side-effect of the forkfuls of under-salted eggs he shoveled into his mouth. While not usually the picture of social refinement, he still felt disgusting eating like this. She would never go on a date with him _now_.

Gradually, Jack’s body began to move. His shoulders took a different set. He planted both of his palms on the table before his right drifted over to his coffee mug, tapping a slow rhythm on its side. His head tilted.

“Did you change your mind about consulting for me, Graham?”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Dr. Bloom’s disbelief pulled her spine erect. “You asked him to do _what_?” When Jack didn’t answer immediately, she let loose. “He’s a civilian, Jack! With no training. No relevant background—”

“Actually,” Will interrupted meekly, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I worked homicide in New Orleans for a while. And I have degrees in forensic psychology and criminology.”

If her brows could rise any further, they would fly off her face.

Jack didn’t allow her to pick up the thread again, cutting in with, “perfectly well-qualified. So? Have you changed your mind?”

There were multiple reasons to say no. But the handful of reasons he could find to say yes were infinitely more interesting.

“Not generally. But if it’ll keep you on the right track with Gideon, then just this once.”

Dr. Bloom, still gaping, sat back against the booth. Her mouth closed; her gaze drifted off to the opposite side of the room. Jack sat back too, but with a sort of smug satisfaction.

“It’ll be a pleasure working with you, too, Doctor Bloom,” Will laughed, setting his fork down on his empty plate and moving to stand.

“Hm? Oh, I’m not working this one,” she sounded distracted; she looked upset. “I’m presenting at a conference in a few days. That, and I’ve worked with him before.”

“We want fresh eyes on this,” Jack announced. “Doctor Bloom’s past relationship with Gideon was—”

“Fraught,” she supplied, shooting Jack a quelling look. He seemed to get the message, and said nothing further.

About half of the items in the ‘pro’ column for working for the FBI crumbled into dust. “Who else do you have working it, then?” Will directed this at Jack, words wobbly as his heart sank to his stomach, cursing his impetuosity.

“My old mentor,” Dr. Bloom answered instead, the corners of her eyes crinkling with a warm fondness that appeared too immediate to be nostalgic. Someone she met with regularly, then. Will’s stomach sank lower. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Let me pass your number on to him,” she said, reaching into her purse for her phone, a silly smile lighting up her face.

_Any excuse to text him._ Will stepped out from the booth, grabbed his car keys from his pocket. He hadn’t touched his coffee, which may be for the better. Romantic disappointment, he found, felt a lot like indigestion. He grumbled something about errands. Time to make his getaway.

He fished a twenty from his wallet and tossed it on the table. “Thanks for checking in on me, Jack, Doctor Bloom,” he mumbled, “and, uh, for your company for lunch.”

“I’ll be in touch, Graham,” Jack called after him.

Dr. Bloom’s voice, clear as a bell, chased Will outside the restaurant and into the cold. “And so will Doctor Lecter!”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to thank my new beta reader, metricmadscience, for being absolutely brilliant and unbelievably helpful in the short time we've been working together. And thank you again for being such a supportive and amazing community! Kudos and comments thoroughly appreciated.


	3. First Impressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 20-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Three

First Impressions.

-+-

“I’m sorry about the wait, Doctor Lecter. Our other consultant has a habit of being late,” said Agent Crawford. The two idled in Jack’s office, awaiting the arrival of said _other_ consultant on the case.

Not two days ago, Hannibal believed his good fortune had come to an end. First, his attempts to engineer a meeting of some sort with Will Graham had ended in failure; then Agent Jack Crawford arrived at his practice, inquiring into Hannibal’s background and acting for all the world as though he was under investigation.

As it turned out, Hannibal had no need to doubt Fortune’s favor. She still held him in high esteem.

“Alana Bloom tells me that we will be working in conjunction with a Mr. Graham on this case. May I ask, is he _the_ Will Graham, of recent fame?” When Jack nodded, Hannibal took a step toward the desk. “I was not aware that he had expertise beyond his first-hand experience.”

“He has a background in homicide,” Jack offered, sliding his chair back so he could come to a seat at his desk. “Forensic psychology and criminology degrees before that. And a keen insight besides.”

Hannibal hummed noncommittally, but put the information tidily away in a newly built room of his mind-palace, one solely reserved for Will Graham.

“There he is.” Jack surged to his feet and made his way around the desk just as a knock sounded on the office door. He snapped the door open, and with a booming voice, barked, “you’re late, Graham.”

“Trouble with the dogs.”

Hannibal thrilled at the sound of the smooth, masculine voice, well-modulated despite its gruffness. Over the last weeks, Hannibal had created a picture in his mind of what Will would be like in person. The soft-spokenness, the overt introversion, the discomfort he waved like a flag, all matched his expectations perfectly. Hannibal decided to be pleased at his accuracy rather than disappointed at the lack of surprise.

Jack ushered Mr. Graham into the office as he shut the door tightly behind him. “Doctor Lecter, let me introduce Will Graham. Will, Doctor Hannibal Lecter will also be consulting with us on the Gideon situation.”

Will avoided eye contact, fidgeted with the thermos in his hands. He appeared nervous, jumpy; as though ready to bolt at any loud sound.

In Jack’s company, that would surely be in a matter of moments.

A brief examination of the man’s attire—wrinkled, ill-fitting—justified the effort Hannibal exerted this morning in choosing his own outfit. He’d modelled himself after Jack, whose dress-sense spoke of decades working in a government facility, and stitched himself an aggressively nonthreatening person-suit that projected a steadfast character. Dependability. Something to set Will Graham at ease for their first meeting.

Generally not an understated dresser, this task took some work. He felt glad of it now.

Hannibal extended a hand, savored the man’s hesitation to take it in his own. His fingers and palm were rough and calloused, his grip firm, more assertive than Hannibal expected. With a deep breath in, Hannibal caught the scent of moist cold, hot coffee, engine grease and dog. A rather masculine combination, though he must have quite a number of animals for his clothing to carry their scent so strongly.

“Will,” the man in question murmured in introduction, eyes focused somewhere to Hannibal’s left. They were a startling shade of blue, almost grey in this lighting, heavily fringed with long, dark lashes. A delightful, unexpected treat.

“A pleasure,” Hannibal returned, releasing his hand and taking a step toward the chairs opposite the desk. “Shall we begin, then?” This, aimed at Jack.

In his periphery, Will touched the thermos down on the desk, shed his elderly coat with its fraying seams, and draped it with his scarf over the back of his chair. He perched on its edge, body curling in on itself, right leg bouncing up and down.

What it must feel like to be so uncomfortable in one’s own skin.

“Of course,” Jack said, bending over to pull a thick manila file from one of his drawers. He dropped the sheaf on the desktop, settled his hand possessively over it, but did not move to open it yet. “As you both know, thanks to Freddie _Lounds_, there’s an unconfirmed story that the Chesapeake Ripper is already in custody.”

Will balked. “_Unconfirmed_. I thought you’d already reached your verdict, Jack. Are we fact checking for Freddie Lounds, now?”

“You’re fact checking for _me_,” Jack corrected. “Someone at the BSHCI sold the story to TattleCrime, and now the major news outlets have picked it up. Whatever drivel Lounds is spouting, it’s important that we leave no stone unturned if there’s even a possibility that Gideon’s the Ripper we’ve been looking for.” He tapped his fingers on the file. “And the timelines match up.”

A lot of press meant a lot of pressure on what would already be a delicate investigation. The public went into hysterics at any mention of the Ripper; the FBI could not afford a single mis-step.

Interesting, then, that they’d selected Mr. Graham, qualified but inexperienced, to consult.

“No luck finding the leak?” Will asked, unscrewing the cap from his thermos and releasing the scent of mildly burnt coffee into the room. Hannibal’s stomach turned.

“Not yet.”

“Might want to consider agents with loose lips at the IHop, if you can’t find it elsewhere,” he said, eyes low, but a wry grin twisting his mouth.

Jack nodded, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “The waiter, you think?” 

“Mmm.”

“Isn’t Frederick Chilton the new head of the BSHCI?” Hannibal asked. “He has always been rather bewitched by the prospect of fame.”

“Doctor Bloom also mentioned him when the topic came up,” Jack grumbled. “At any rate, that’s not the investigation I want you focused on.” He pushed the file folder across the table at them. “We’ve put together a dossier, a brief overview of the hallmarks of Gideon’s known murders, and—”

Jack’s cellphone rang, cutting him off as its vibrations sent it crawling across his desk. He grunted, but when he saw the name on the screen, a deep scowl set in on his face. He held up a finger, “One moment, please,” and answered the phone. “Crawford.”

Hannibal’s gaze wandered from Jack, whose scowl grew progressively deeper as he listened to the caller, to the scruffy man seated in the chair beside him. Will determinedly avoided turning Hannibal’s way and sat rigid, still on the edge of his seat. Hannibal admired the dark curls, the chiseled jawline; he abhorred the cut and quality of the clothes that obscured his figure. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance,” he murmured, so as not to distract Jack. “Alana Bloom.”

Will grunted but said nothing, eyes flitting in Hannibal’s direction, landing somewhere by his elbow, and then skittering away just as quickly. 

A low-burning displeasure manifested itself as an open frown, but before Hannibal could think to say anything further, Jack headed him off by hanging up the phone and pushing his chair back in one smooth movement.

“Looks like Gideon got tired of us not taking his confession at face value,” he said, appearing suddenly older, tired.

“He’s murdered someone,” Will hummed, expression souring, focus on his thermos.

Jack grunted. “Get your coats on, gentlemen,” he said, scooping the file up in one hand and pushing his chair in with the other. “We’re going on a field-trip.”

Will balked. “Jack—I have a background in homicide at least, but Doctor Lecter—”

“Was an emergency room surgeon, in a past life,” Hannibal said, reining in his sudden elation, buttoning his suit jacket as he stood. “You have no need to concern yourself over my sensibilities.”

Indeed, his sensibilities were not in the least offended, instead teeming with excitement. Consulting on this case afforded him a wealth of possibilities, of possible roads his future and his work might take. And, of course, the opportunity to meet the aesthetically pleasing Will Graham, however unsatisfactory his other qualities appeared on first impression.

As a group, they departed the office and then the building. A young woman, dark wavy hair loose around her shoulders, popping gum, fell into step beside Jack as they entered the parking lot. “Hey, Jack.”

“Katz.”

“Price and Zeller have everything loaded up, they’re already on their way. Can I hitch a ride with you?”

Jack’s nod constituted the entirety of his response.

They reached an unmarked black sedan, where Hannibal deferred the front seat to Miss Katz. Once everyone settled into the car with safety belts buckled, Jack passed the file to the backseat, his expectation that they look over its contents implicit in the expression that accompanied the handoff. To Hannibal’s surprise and pleasure, Will placed the file on the center console so that they might study it together.

On the very top of the stack, a crime scene photograph of Jeremy French—the man whose tongue Hannibal had cut out and placed between the pages of his Bible. Hannibal recalled with fondness the sounds that escaped Mr. French’s mouth, muffled as they were by Hannibal’s hand, gripping the tongue with gauze as he excised it.

He flipped the page, to be greeted by another of his pieces. “Are these first files all the Ripper’s?” he asked.

“We have them chronologically,” Miss Katz said, turning around in her seat to peer at him over her headrest. “So yes—the Thanksgiving dinner murders came last, and the Ripper has been inactive since then.”

_Not so much inactive as operating in anonymity_, Hannibal corrected silently.

He glanced up at Will, delighted to meet the man’s eyes, though they jumped away and back down to the file. Will licked his lips. “May I?”

Hannibal gestured for him to go ahead, watched as he flipped through the photographs, studying each one quickly, until he reached Gideon’s crime. Here his gaze lingered. Hannibal had no time for Gideon just now—he found himself absorbed by the way Will’s face changed. From something gentle, benign, his expression fell into one almost comical in its intense displeasure when he alighted on the family, dead at their dinner table. Will’s lips tightened, the corners pinching downward dramatically. He took a deep breath, shook his head minutely, then flipped past the picture.

“Will Doctor Chilton be receiving us?” Hannibal asked, turning his attention from the file and allowing for Will to scoop it up and explore it at his leisure.

“Yes,” Jack said. “He’ll brief us while Beverly and the rest of the team start processing the crime scene. We’ll head down there and take a look once the team gives the okay.”

The backseat stopped jiggling for a second as Will’s leg stilled. A long sigh, and his grip on the folder tightened. “Been a while since I’ve been on a scene.”

“Not _that_ long,” piped up Miss Katz, tossing a teasing smile over at Will.

“One with a body, then.” He slapped the file back on the center console and turned to look out the window. Hannibal frowned. Miss Katz’s comment had been in poor taste.

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Hannibal perused the file but did not bother overmuch with the details. He had already formed an idea of what transpired. No matter how many staff members at the BSHCI Abel Gideon killed, it would never change the truth of the matter.

He read, with some amusement, a brief statement made by Dr. Frederick Chilton regarding Gideon’s confession. It matched his perception of the man precisely. Hannibal had met Chilton once at a conference, and a few times while socializing. Though he didn’t run in _exactly_ the same circles as Hannibal, they shared a number of acquaintances. Hannibal, momentarily aggrieved that he should be dressed so much more simply than his wont, reflected that Chilton would doubtless be attired to peacock about; he’d given countless interviews since the confession became public, after all.

True to form, they were received in the building’s lobby not by its director, but by a young man in an oversized orderly’s uniform. “Agent Jack Crawford, FBI,” Jack said, flashing his badge. “Doctor Chilton should be expecting us.”

Their orderly did not wear his nametag at the appropriate height over his chest; instead it dangled from a lanyard, rotating every which way with the excessively broad movements of its wearer. Hannibal caught the name on the badge as its spinning hiccupped with a change in momentum as he came up to greet them. ‘M. Brown.’

Miss Katz, directed to another gentleman in a set of _correctly_ sized white scrubs, departed the group with a wave.

“Please follow me,” said Mr. Brown, a soft lisp coloring his speech. He pivoted in place, eyes lingering on Will Graham’s averted face for a moment before leading them through the labyrinthine structure of the hospital-cum-prison. 

Mr. Brown knocked on the door of the office as he popped his head in, then shut it again almost immediately. “Doctor Chilton will be a moment,” he said, gesturing toward a row of stiff-looking chairs lined up against the wall in the hallway. “You may want to have a seat.”

Ah, yes. This felt very like Chilton, very performative. Jack’s jaw worked, his frown severe. Will Graham, by contrast, appeared placid, taking his seat as instructed, face blank, unfocused gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

_Rather than placid,_ Hannibal reflected, noting the way the man barely seemed to breathe or blink,_ ‘perturbed’ might be a better descriptor._

They waited all of eight minutes before the office door opened to Chilton, ushering them in. “I apologize for the wait,” he said, hand on the door. “Urgent phone call.”

_More urgent than the body?_ He glanced at his companions, and from the looks on their faces, their thoughts lay in a similar vein.

“Jack, good to see you again,” Chilton held out a hand and Jack took it in a strong grip, judging from Frederick’s grimace. “Doctor Lecter,” he said, nursing his hand for only a moment before reaching out to Hannibal. “Our first time working together, I believe.”

“So it is,” Hannibal replied, gently amused.

“And you must be Will Graham. I’ve read a lot about you.”

Will, who had half-turned to stare out the window, swiveled his gaze back to Chilton, his brows furrowed. Hannibal agreed: the statement showed an appalling lack of tact. What about this man tempted others to be rude to him? Their trespasses erred on the side of the over-familiar; their speech dressed down the way Will dressed down, pretending to understand him the way he appeared to understand them.

“Afraid I can’t say the same,” Will said, and Hannibal had to concentrate to not let his smile slip out.

Undeterred, Chilton motioned at the chairs across from his desk. “Gentlemen, have a seat.”

“Thank you again for accommodating us,” Jack said, a little bite in his voice. He settled in one of the chairs and the two consultants took their cue from him. “We did have some questions, before we head down to the crime scene.” He glanced at Hannibal, who picked up the thread immediately.

“Doctor Chilton, may I ask why a nurse was left alone with a prisoner in a high-security psychiatric hospital?”

Chilton’s explanation consisted of a string of excuses and weak justifications. Rewards for good behaviour indeed. At least he seemed genuinely saddened by the death of the staffer, though his sorrow did not outweigh his enjoyment of the limelight. 

“Now if _I_ may ask, what sort of expertise will _Mr. Graham_ be contributing to this investigation? First-hand experience of the minds of madness aside, of course. Getting a regimented killer to break pattern… would you mind staying for a chat with me, Mr. Graham, after you’re done for the day?”

Will grunted, Jack scolded. “He has all the required qualifications for the position he’s filling. And he’s not here to be analyzed, Doctor Chilton.”

“Perhaps he should be,” Chilton said. “It could further your insight into the Mushroom Man. And mine.”

A thrill coursed up Hannibal’s spine. So, they had imprisoned Stammets here, awaiting trial. It seemed likely that he would be convicted, likelier still that if he was, he would remain here for the duration of his sentence. What insights the man would have on Will Graham, purportedly innocent bystander, who assuredly _ate the mushrooms_.

Jack elected to ignore this statement and remove Will from the situation. “In the interest of respecting your time, Doctor Chilton, I’ll interview you while they examine the scene. They’ll have some more questions when they’re done, I’m sure. Doctor Lecter, Will.”

Mr. Brown awaited them in the hallway, leaning on the wall beside the door.

Hannibal allowed Chilton’s words to marinate, considering them as they followed the quiet young man who tore like a tempest through the corridors. They traversed two cell-blocks, then turned into a back passage, lit by fluorescents, smelling of bleach.

“I admit to being as curious as Doctor Chilton. Your educational background qualifies you for the task, I’m sure, but you must admit that there are several more experienced consultants to whom the offer might have been extended.”

With a little falter in his step, Will glanced at Hannibal, then lowered his face immediately to study the speckled tile floors. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Apparently Alana told him I have a keen insight.”

Hannibal considered. This was word for word what Jack said. He recalled the smoothness of Will’s face when he looked at the Ripper’s work, the frown when he looked at Gideon’s. He recalled the many, many viewings of the press conference video. The way Will had shrugged, the way his lips moved. ‘Well, I—’. He felt more convinced than ever that the sentence ended on ‘did’.

“A keen insight into the nature of—” _killers_—“people?” He let his lips move into a smile. “Anyone who studies the mind would likely boast the same,” this, he said gently, to remove the sting.

Will tracked in his direction, sightline travelling over Hannibal’s face, but never quite meeting his eyes. “Seems like Jack wants mine.” His tone held all the sharpness that Hannibal had endeavored to soften in his own.

Hannibal hummed, but couldn’t help poking the bear once more. “For a man with keen insight, I have noticed you tend to avoid eye contact.”

“Eyes are distracting,” Will said, stopping in his tracks. Hannibal turned to face him, and felt delight suffuse him throughout when those swirling blue irises met his. The dark fringe of Will’s lashes lowered in tandem with his brows, his jaw taking a defensive set. “You see a little, you see too much. More than enough. Makes it hard to concentrate. So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.” He started walking again, passing Hannibal by as though determined to leave him behind.

They turned a corner, and Mr. Brown slowed to a halt beside a door labeled ‘infirmary’. “I’ll wait for you here. No rush.” The young man’s sharp focus landed on Will’s face and lingered there with an intensity that burned. Then he turned the knob and opened the door, motioning for them to go in.

Hannibal preceded Will into the room. The forensic team busied about, doing their various assigned tasks; periodically a camera flash went off as the forensic photographer snapped another image of the details of the scene. Miss Katz, kneeling on the floor with evidence bag in hand, waved, giving him permission to step into the room as far as he liked.

After taking in the general ambiance, Hannibal finally turned his attention to the body.

The Wound Man. He clenched his jaw, fought not to grit his teeth.

Claiming the credit for Hannibal’s work was one thing—unforgivable, still, but not nearly as terrible a slight as _this_, this… blatant forgery. Hannibal’s Wound Man had been an homage to the medical illustration, the plethora of inflicted wounds arranged tastefully, with restraint. _This_ Wound Man looked like a porcupine, or a murderer’s chia pet, perhaps. Gideon took every instrument possible in the room and placed them without respect for spacing or the integrity of the reference. Worse, he had gouged the nurse’s eyes out. This final fact made this ruination of a murder entirely irredeemable. The Wound Man’s eyes were the whole _point_.

Will stepped beside him, sucked in a gasp between his teeth. His arms crossed, hands rubbing at them over his jacket, as though warding off a chill. With a tentative step, he approached the corpse, leaning over on his tiptoes to get as much of a top-down view as he could manage.

“We got a shot like that for reference, for the file,” Miss Katz announced. She stood from where she had been collecting trace evidence from the floor and brushed her knees off before approaching them.

“The removal of organs and abdominal mutilations are all consistent with the Chesapeake Ripper,” said another man, this one younger, around Will’s age and similarly scruffy with overgrown stubble and dark hair, but lacking Will’s classic beauty, his engaging eyes. “The distinctive brutalization of the corpse—”

“What did he do with the organs?” Will interrupted, eyes still riveted on the body.

“Not much,” said an older gentleman, small in stature with something birdlike in both his speech and his face. “Bloodspots on the floor there,” he pointed, “and there, from where he dumped them. They’re in evidence already.”

“Probably didn’t have enough time to—to do whatever he does with them,” this, from the scruffy one.

“They were on the floor.” Will repeated, deadpan.

Miss Katz made quick introductions to Hannibal; Will, he noticed, she left out of this exchange. Had Mr. Price and Mr. Zeller been there to process Stammets’ place of residence, then? They all met at a rather vulnerable time for Will, if so. What kind of face had he made, when rescue arrived?

Hannibal’s attention strayed to the man in question, who, now that the forensics team had released him, drifted away from the night nurse to lean against the wall. Suddenly he looked rather haggard, _tired_ almost. Hannibal blinked in surprise when Will’s eyelids drooped, fluttering once before shutting completely. He stood, head tipped back against the wall that way, unmoving, until a fine tremor began coursing his body from top to bottom. His breathing pattern changed to something more urgent, though not labored or tachypneic. Then, moments later, he came out from under his trance, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Are you alright, Will?” Hannibal asked, taking a step closer to him. Sweat had beaded on the man’s skin at the forehead and upper lip; the rancid scent of fear condensed in those miniscule droplets.

“Fine,” he grunted, pulled off his glasses and rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes.

Hannibal decided to give him a moment to collect himself; he approached the body to examine the night nurse more closely. “Her eyes are gouged out,” he noted again, this time aloud. “Were they with the remainder of the innards?”

“Pieces of them,” said Mr. Price.

Hannibal took a step toward the wall, where Will still stood, glasses replaced and an expression as sour as his scent. “The Wound Man has been used as a teaching tool in medicine for centuries,” he informed his listeners. “But in the published reproductions and reimaginings of the figure, the eyes were always intact. The intent behind the piece’s creation was not to frighten, but to teach; to inure fledgling surgeons to the kinds of wounds and horrors that they might encounter in their work.”

Will stepped forward, studying the night nurse’s face. “The eyes… she was still alive when he took her eyes, right?” He glanced at the forensic team, all of whom nodded.

“The rest of the damage was done post-mortem,” this again from Mr. Price.

“COD?”

“Hard to tell at this point, but my money’s on the IV pole through the chest,” said Mr. Zeller.

Will hummed, averting his face as he took in a long breath. “I need some air.”

Hannibal sympathized. The scent of old blood and early-stage putrification of dead flesh could be quite overbearing. His standard operating procedures usually precluded his exposure to this stench; but with Will’s allusion to it, he felt it in full force, flooding his olfactory receptors.

“Shall we return to Chilton’s office, then?” Hannibal offered, heading toward the infirmary door.

Will followed, nodding absently. They were halfway down one of the cell-blocks when Will stopped in his tracks. Ahead of them, Mr. Brown slowed to a stop, leaned against the wall, and fixed his attention on Will, who, oblivious, burst into speech. “Creating the Wound Man scene was an afterthought,” he said. “He gouged her eyes out to subdue her. He didn’t decide to make a tableau out of it until then. The rest of the attack was meticulously planned. This—this was _impulsive_.”

Hannibal nodded, enraptured by the passionate urgency in Will’s voice. “The consumption of the arthritis ointment to appear ill, the concealing of the fork tine to maneuver out of the handcuffs…”

“He knew he would kill the nurse,” Will hammered the point home. “But it wasn’t until after that he—the, the Chesapeake Ripper is a lot of things but _impulsive_ is not one of them. At least, not like this.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched upward at the qualification, but even if he allowed the grin to overcome him, Will would not notice, too lost in the fog of his thoughts, riveted on a spot somewhere to Hannibal’s left. “You are of the opinion that his confessions were false,” Hannibal said, voice betraying none of his mirth. “But to what purpose?”

“We’ll have to interview him, but I can make my guesses.” The preoccupation on his face disappeared, dissolved into a fierce frown. He glanced at Hannibal’s chin once more before turning to Mr. Brown and apologizing for the hold-up.

“Like I said, no rush,” drawled Mr. Brown in response, before turning and leading them down the corridor once more. A different route than the one they took to the infirmary, Hannibal noted.

They hadn’t made more than ten steps before a pair of hands slammed onto the bars of the adjacent cell, hands gripping them tightly enough to turn the knuckles white. All three of them startled to varying degrees.

“Will?” came the weak voice from inside the cell.

Will’s face drained entirely of color.

This time, Hannibal did not fight to hide his smile. Nobody was looking at him, anyway.

Not when, there, in standard issue navy prison jump-suit, grip strong and voice weak, stood Eldon Stammets.

“_Will.”_

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, my beta is an absolute HERO and saved you all from reading a chapter as poorly written as Freddie Lounds' articles. Give her a shout-out if you can!
> 
> Kudos make Hannibal want to watch Will burn. Comments make him want to Eat. Will. Up.


	4. Forgive them for their trespasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 23-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Four

Forgive them for their trespasses.

-+-

The first time Will met Eldon Stammets, in reality, turned out to be more like the fourth. Well, the fourth for him, anyway; it had been many more than that for Eldon. Will didn’t blame himself for not noticing, though. Memory, eidetic or otherwise, only helps you remember the things you attend to, after all, and Will had never looked at the man’s face. He would probably have recognized him by the fit of his lab coat, the name on his nametag, the sound of his voice, if Stammets had approached him wearing them, or bothered to say anything when he did.

Instead, Will had been fumbling with his key-ring one-handed, trying to isolate the car key from the rest, when Stammets approached on silent feet and, with a baton he produced from his sleeve, knocked Will over the head. But Will didn’t lose consciousness—he stumbled, falling against his car and sliding to the asphalt, his coat catching on the side-mirror.

When he told Alana that ‘wait, my dogs’ were the only words he got out, he hadn’t been lying. He’d held his hands up protectively over his head, murmured his plea, only for Stammets to whack him again and send him spiraling into unconsciousness.

He woke at last to find himself in a strange, tiny bedroom, bare of any decoration, coat and shoes nowhere in sight. It turned out that Stammets had taken Will seriously, and after leaving Will at the house departed immediately to see to his dogs. Will only figured out after the fact that, every day when Eldon would disappear for a few hours at a time without explanation, he would spend at least part of his time making the ridiculous drive out to Wolf Trap so he could feed, water, and exercise the dogs.

In some ways, Stammets could be thoughtful.

Now, behind the bars, clutching at them desperately for balance, face wan and pale, glasses askew, voice nearly _begging_ as he uttered Will’s name, ‘thoughtful’ didn’t seem to apply. Something far less flattering might. For a fleeting instant, as he took in the sallowness of Stammets’ skin and the hollowness of his cheeks, their eyes met. In that moment of blistering eye contact, Will felt as though he’d fallen down the rabbit hole once more.

Shit. _Shit_.

Suddenly his chest constricted, his breath seized and then came again all in a rush. He would either have a panic attack, or—

“Will,” said Stammets, voice pressing, insistent. Just as urgent as it had been when he realized the FBI was closing in on them; when he delivered his instructions and made his promises as he strapped Will down to the dining room chair. “Did you get my letter?”

_Yes_, he wanted to say.

But the presence of the two other bodies in the hall stopped his lips and tongue from forming the word.

“This—this isn’t a social call, Eldon,” he managed, mouth a desert, taking a tentative step back. He glanced helplessly at Dr. Lecter, then at the orderly in the baggy scrubs. Instead of offering rescue, both of their attentions, formerly on the inmate, swiveled to Will to gauge his response. “We should go,” he almost pleaded, his urgency to escape announcing itself in the tremble of his voice.

The orderly nodded slowly. He straightened, gestured for the two men to precede him down the hall, and started forward at a leisurely pace.

“Will!” Stammets called out once more, and Will grit his teeth to keep from turning his head.

He did turn just a little, though, when a warm hand rested on the center of his back, just below the shoulder blades—a reassuring touch. When he looked up, Dr. Lecter had fallen in step beside him, lips pinched, concern drawing his brow down. “Are you feeling alright?”

Will felt a lot of things, but ‘alright’ didn’t really number among them. He recalled the emotions that coursed through him upon reading Stammets’ letter: a thrill of excitement, a sickened self-disgust. Now again, his body felt torn in two directions. Without the escort of the two men with him, he would have allowed himself some enjoyment at meeting Eldon once more. But he hadn’t prepared to face him in the presence of others.

_God, what am I going to do for the trial?_

He hadn’t planned that far ahead. He _knew_ he would have to. Hell, Jack’s reminders about it came as frequently as the sunrise. But, like with most unpleasant things, he buried the thought down deep. Who could he possibly speak to that would understand? Alana Bloom, delightful though she may be, sure as hell wouldn’t.

He found himself, in Eldon’s words, reaching and searching, and finding nothing. The pharmacist’s script, a doctor trying to write as legibly as possible, glowed up at him from the memory of the eight by eleven whose creases Will had nearly worn through: “_True understanding and companionship are only a dream_.”

“Will, are you alright?” Dr. Lecter repeated, a subtle increase in pressure on Will’s back reminding Will that the hand and the psychiatrist it belonged to were still there.

Reassuring or not, Will didn’t like being touched without his permission. He wrenched away. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dr. Lecter hummed. _He’s not convinced_. One of his hands moved up to rub at the stubble on his jaw. If he planned to say anything more, he lost his chance; the orderly stopped walking ahead of them. As he turned, Will finally got a glance at the name on the nametag, dangling just above crotch-level. They’d reached the lobby.

“Air,” Brown announced, gesturing to the door. “Or should I show you back up to Doctor Chilton’s office?” he asked. He affected a lisp, Will noted. Oversized clothes and a fake lisp—an odd mask to hide behind.

Dr. Lecter deferred to Will, who, for some reason, found himself answering his fellow consultant rather than the man who asked the question in the first place. “Yeah, I need some air.”

“We’ll wait for Agent Crawford outside, if you would inform him that we have finished,” Dr. Lecter said, hands folded tidily behind his back, chin raised a little in a somewhat superior manner.

Brown nodded, making his silent departure down the hallway he’d led them through before. Dr. Lecter raised his arm, gesturing Will toward the door. “Shall we?”

Will zipped up his coat, pulled his gloves and hat from his pocket, and led the way outdoors.

Apropos of nothing, Dr. Lecter spoke. “I’d apologize for my earlier analytical ambush, Will, but it’s a hard thing to turn off. As I am certain I’ll commit the error again, I’ll have to use apologies sparingly.”

“Just—” Will sighed, tugging his hat down over his ears. “Just keep it professional.”

“Or we could socialize like adults; God forbid we become friendly.” When Will said nothing, he tutted, stepping toward Will, crowding into his space. “You’ve gone rather pale. If you will pardon my forwardness, I am quite a good listener, should you ever need—”

“What? A psychiatrist?” Will seethed.

“—a friend.”

Oh.

That. That was unexpected.

“I—” he stumbled over his words, disarmed. “I don’t find you that interesting.”

Will felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment. He sucked in a breath and the air tasted like winter, icy, cooling his mouth and his still-burning cheeks. A balm to his humiliation.

Instead of looking offended, though, amusement crinkled the corners of Dr. Lecter’s eyes. “You will.” His phone dinged, and he drew it from his pocket with the speed and agility of a well-practiced policeman drawing his gun. “Ah, Jack. He will be on his way shortly.”

Will rested a hand on the wrought-iron of the stair rail, stepped down onto the first step. Doctor Lecter moved down one step as well. Will glanced at him from the corner of his eye before leaning against the rail and staring down at the driveway.

_I don’t find you that interesting_. Humiliating, and not even exactly true.

He found something _interesting _about the way the man carried himself: all arrogant self-confidence, despite a suit that had clearly been chosen to downplay the aggressive hauteur of his bearing. The way he _did not_ apologize for his rudeness, in fact only promising to continue to repeat the offense. The way he, a civilian, appeared so wholly unperturbed by the crime scene. No medical background would harden someone to the extremes of violence so thoroughly that he could waltz around a brutal murder without finding himself at least a little disturbed. Even seasoned police and forensic techs balked on entry to a scene like the one they’d just visited.

“How do you know Doctor Chilton?” Will asked, before he could stop himself.

“Frederick?” Dr. Lecter asked, and Will turned around to lean on the railing and face the psychiatrist, though just as before he opted to keep his eyes on the seam joining panels of the coat’s lapel. “Frederick followed the same career blueprint as I; a surgeon first, then a career change to psychiatry. He practiced in one of the same hospitals as I did, after I left. We share a number of acquaintances through work. Alana Bloom, to name one.”

“He’s...” Will trailed off, unable to put words to describe the excessiveness that defined Frederick Chilton.

“Yes, he is at that.” Again, amusement crinkled the fine lines around Dr. Lecter’s eyes, which sat over interesting, nearly skeletal cheekbones, dotted with a fine stubble longer than a five-o’clock shadow.

_He didn’t shave this morning. _Will stuck his tongue between two of his back teeth as he chewed on that. He’d seen the psychiatrist rub at the stubble only the once, but for a man who did not fidget with himself much, that said a lot. _He left it there on purpose._

They didn’t have to wait much longer for Jack to arrive. The man moved as though powered by lightning. He charged out of the hospital doors, a fierce twist to his lips, brows pinched together in consternation. “I hope your visit proved more productive than mine,” he boomed, loud as a thunderclap, before settling his hat on his head and fishing his car keys from his pocket. “Let’s go.”

“Is Beverly not coming back with us?” Will asked, almost sorry that she would have to share the car-ride back with Price and Zeller. Those two could sure talk.

Seeing Beverly, Price, and Zeller all together had made him sweat with anxiety. The three together were a machine of curiosity, and very vocal about it. Honestly, aside from Beverly’s little quip she’d launched at him in the car, he felt he’d gotten away relatively clean from that encounter. None of them questioned his presence at the scene. None of them made reference to their previous acquaintance. Will could rest a little easier, feel a little calmer.

As they all piled into the car, Will seated himself behind the driver’s seat while Doctor Lecter migrated to the front.

He registered the two in front talking, not discussing the crime scene, but rather the frustration of meeting with Chilton. He leaned his head on the window, letting the scenery lift him away into a thoughtless place.

The drive passed in a blink, Jack’s car pulling smoothly to a stop in his reserved parking spot. Will took stock of his surroundings, bracing himself for the conversation to follow. He would have to justify his conclusions to Jack. This meant being careful. He tended to let himself get lost in the minds of those at whom he _looked_; truly looked. It would be easy to lapse into Gideon’s frame of mind when discussing the murder of the night nurse. Better to try and keep things objective.

The trio walked to Jack’s office in silence; Jack tapping away at his phone, Dr. Lecter looking curiously about him as they walked the halls of the FBI. By the time they reached Jack’s office, Will felt the depths of his exhaustion descend upon him. He hadn’t seen a body like that since New Orleans. The smell. The brutality.

Then interacting with all these _people_.

He wasn’t built for this kind of thing. Or—he’d gotten so out of practice at it that it drained him beyond belief. He could remember, when he lived in Louisiana still, that he’d been able to handle these kinds of days without much difficulty. But in the intervening years, ever since he moved to Virginia and took up a more leisurely occupation, he’d lost that skill.

Once in the familiar confines of Jack’s office, Will slumped over into his seat.

He noticed the smile on Dr. Lecter’s face as he settled into the same chair he’d sat in before—he probably thought the insistence on same seats, both in the car and here, laughable.

It didn’t matter.

Will deflated, not bothering with his coat and scarf this time. He didn’t have the energy for it right now. Instead, he took his glasses off, tucked them into his pocket, and laid his head back against the top of the seat.

“Doctor Lecter,” said Jack, “Will. Chilton proved singularly unhelpful; he’s convinced that Gideon is the Ripper and wouldn’t tolerate any implication to the contrary.”

“I believe our consensus is that Gideon’s claims are false, despite what he did to the night nurse,” Doctor Lecter said, crossing his ankle over his knee, settling back into his chair. _Getting comfortable_. “Will and I were discussing the crime scene and it lacks certain hallmarks of the Ripper’s profile.”

“Oh?” This caught Jack’s interest, but Dr. Lecter did not elaborate, instead deferring to Will.

Will sat up in his chair, taking his cue from his fellow consultant. “This kill was both premeditated and impulsive. He went into this knowing he wanted to kill the night nurse, but with no plans for escape. He ate the medication; he kept the fork tine in his hand to escape the cuffs.” Will sucked in a breath, trying to control the tremor in his voice. In his mind’s eye, he could see the body, raised three feet off the ground by the various implements stabbed clean through, forming a sort of tripod beneath. The lack of wounds to the limbs, the excess of wounds on the torso. “But he didn’t have a design in mind when he killed her. The Ripper’s kills are a study in control. He’s methodical. Meticulous. Every choice has a brutal elegance. Gideon’s Wound Man is not _that_.” He paused long enough to clench his hands, the bite of his nails against his palm enough to rein in his excitement. “Even if it was, the Ripper—he wouldn’t try to convince us of his identity by repeating a previous tableau. He’s an _artist_,” pointedly, he avoided looking Jack’s way. “He would want to show us something new.”

Dr. Lecter remained silent long enough for Will to look his way and register the thoughtfulness of his expression as he looked at Will. The doctor folded his hands onto lap then, and repeated his explanation about the eye-gouging, the significance of the image of the Wound Man in medical pedagogy, the order of wound creation. The whole time he had a smug air about him, about the tilt of his chin, the lilt of his foreign-accented voice. Like a cat that got the cream.

Will couldn’t pinpoint a reason for this sense of satisfaction.

It bothered him.

“He didn’t decide to recreate the Wound Man until he saw the way the IV pole stuck out after he pierced the nurse’s heart,” Will announced, breaking the thoughtful silence that fell after Dr. Lecter’s monologue. “Impulsive. Unrefined. This is a different pathology. A forgery. He’s not your Ripper, Jack.”

“While we are all in agreement, an interview would help shed light on the reasoning for his false confession,” Dr. Lecter said, his head tilting the other way, asking for permission, and looking a lot like Winston for just a moment.

Jack hummed. “He’s not the Chesapeake Ripper,” he repeated, as though weighing the words. He nodded eventually, accepting the verdict. “So he either knows that he isn’t, or believes falsely that he is. Which do you think it is?”

Dr. Lecter’s lips ticked upward, a miniscule movement; blink and you miss it. That he did not miss it forced the realization on Will that he’d been staring. He turned his sightline to Jack’s hands, fingers drumming in a slow rhythm on the desk. Dr. Lecter answered while Will smoothed his ruffled feathers. “Without speaking to him, it would be impossible to say.”

“If he believes he is, that would be new for him,” Will groused. “If he believes he is, something about him has changed fundamentally during his imprisonment.”

He saw, in his periphery, the Doctor focus on him, considering. “Do you believe he’s been induced to think himself the Chesapeake Ripper, then?”

“I don’t know. Like you said, we’d have to talk to him. Do you think Chilton is capable of influencing someone that way?”

A soft huff of amusement left Dr. Lecter’s lips. He cast his eyes down, but not before Will caught the sparkle in them. In retrospect, that question could be taken as quite insulting, but Will didn’t mean it like _that_. He didn’t question Chilton’s competence, though perhaps he should; he questioned his morals.

“I do not know him well enough to have a gauge for the flexibility of his moral and ethical compass,” Dr. Lecter replied.

Jack cleared his throat. “When are you available next, Doctor Lecter, to interview Gideon?”

“I have a few hours in the mid-afternoon next Friday.”

“Good. I’ll expect you both here at—what time? Noon?”

Dr. Lecter nodded his agreement. Will bristled. Maybe it was unfair of him to be upset; after all, he decided his own work schedule. Jack knew this, knew that Will could be incredibly flexible. But couldn’t he have at least made the effort to ask? Extend the politeness to _both_ participants in the conversation? He let the sensation pass over him and grunted his agreement as well.

Jack thanked them for their time and told them that he’d reach out with any updates in the intervening days.

Will got to his feet, eyes on Dr. Lecter’s hands as they re-buttoned the front of his jacket. Surgeon’s hands; capable hands. Something niggled at him, but he brushed it off and smoothed the front of his own coat before burrowing into his pockets to search for his car keys, gloves, and hat.

Dr. Lecter got the door, motioned for Will to precede him through it_. Ugh, we’ll have to leave the building together._ This meant more awkward, stilting conversation and a second round of goodbyes.

He grimaced.

But instead, it seemed Dr. Lecter seemed happy to walk in silence through the halls, though he didn’t allow Will the illusion of space; he walked beside him, in step with him.

When they made the parking lot, there were far fewer cars than when they’d arrived. Will checked his watch and frowned. Really, where had the time gone? He scratched at his chin, his skin prickling in the cold, the synthetic knit of his gloves shocking him with a static spark.

Will glanced up at Doctor Lecter in order to say his farewells, but the psychiatrist headed him off with, “Allow me to walk you to your vehicle.”

They were ten steps from his car, why would he need an escort? Not that Dr. Lecter would know which car belonged to him or that he’d parked so close. He threw an exasperated glance in its direction, to see a curly-haired red-head leaning against his driver door.

_God. Damn. It._

“Will Graham,” said Freddie Lounds, staring him down for a moment before turning with interest to look at Doctor Lecter.

“This makes the second time you’re on private property without permission, Freddie,” Will spat from between gritted teeth, stepping a little in front of the doctor to shield him from her.

Freddie straightened, took a step away from his vehicle, and raised her hands in a coy gesture of surrender. “No shotgun this time?” She teased, but her eyes glinted more predatory than playful.

“I can just call the cops again,” he offered, deadpan. “Trespassing is a punishable offence.” Beside him, Doctor Lecter’s head, which had been swiveling back and forth between them, turned to look at Freddie. His lips quirked in amusement, the forward balance of his center of gravity screaming ‘expectation’. Any further and he’d pop up on his toes.

“Don’t like smudges on your paint job?” she asked, throwing a look askance at the beat-up Volvo. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time you’re around.”

Her implication rang clear. His presence stopped her, but without him there, she’d do just as she liked. “What are you doing here, Freddie?”

“What are _you_ doing here, Graham?” she asked. “I was under the impression that everything having to do with Eldon Stammets had been wrapped up with a ribbon on top.” When he remained stubbornly silent, she turned her attention to Dr. Lecter at last, and extended a hand. “Freddie Lounds,” she introduced herself.

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he replied, no outward sign of surprise on his face. _This makes him a reader of TattleCrime, then. Interesting._ Lecter took her hand and shook it firmly.

Recognition lit up Freddie’s eyes. It made sense to Will how Dr. Lecter knew her, but he couldn’t hit on a reason why Freddie would know _him_. Something to look into later. “Aren’t house calls a premium service, doctor?” She cast a snide look at Will. “You must be living _well_ below your means, Graham.”

Dr. Lecter did not feign missing her meaning, and instead railroaded over the insult as though she had not spoken. “They are a premium service. But this is not a house call, and Mr. Graham is not my patient.” His hand rose up behind Will’s back, landing once more in its center, just below Will’s shoulder blades.

Again, that weirdly proprietary, unsolicited touch.

Manipulative of him to put it there when shrugging his hand off would fuel Freddie’s fire. But to Will’s surprise, unlike the last time, when Dr. Lecter’s hand settled on his back with an intention to stay, this time, the touch shortened to a gentle, fleeting thing. Reassuring in both intention and brevity. He’d noticed Will’s discomfort before, and modified his behaviour.

_Thoughtful._

“You must excuse us, Miss Lounds,” Dr. Lecter continued, the well-modulated tones of his voice more instructive than apologetic, “as our business has concluded, and we both have other demands on our time.”

Will took this as his opportunity to shoulder past her, not looking her way when she stumbled back, her heels clicking abrasively on the asphalt. He jiggered his key into the driver’s door, popping it open before glancing over his shoulder at Dr. Lecter one last time.

For a fleeting moment, their eyes met.

Something sizzled, seared in the doctor’s gaze; a judgement pronounced, a verdict reached. Will froze like a deer in the headlights, his body locking up the way it had when Eldon Stammets approached him, baton over his head, ready to club him down. _Why always at my car?_

He swallowed past the thickness in his throat; eyes still glued on the dark red-amber of the psychiatrist’s irises, Will felt compelled to enact some sort of leave-taking before shutting both him and Freddie out. “Thank you for today, Doctor Lecter.”

Doctor Lecter’s lashes lowered, and when he looked up at Will once more, he appeared to be considering him. Recalculating, reevaluating. Will felt quite suddenly that he’d dodged a bullet; that his dive into the abyss ended with breaching the surface of the water rather than drowning in its depths. “I’ll be in touch,” Lecter murmured, gaze slipping away from Will to Freddie.

Will’s did too. “Freddie,” he said, the only farewell he would give her, merely an acknowledgement, as he slid behind the steering wheel.

“Graham,” she replied in kind, eyes flitting between the two men, trying to figure out the dynamic and relationship between them.

“Miss Lounds.” This, from the doctor, who nodded once more at Will before taking the door handle and closing the driver door for him—a kind of old-fashioned chivalry that Will appreciated under the circumstances, but would _hate_ at any other time—then turning on his heel and walking away.

There were few cars in the lot. The direction that Dr. Lecter headed, he saw just the one—a gleaming black Bentley, understated and elegant.

He’d thought so before, from all the little hints the man dropped, but seeing the Bentley confirmed it beyond a doubt. “The man matches the office after all,” he murmured to himself. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, processing, before sticking his key in the ignition and commencing the long drive home.

Will, not a man whose phone vibrated with any kind of regularity, found himself receiving enough messages to justify carrying it around in his pocket, rather than leaving it plugged in on his nightstand all day long. He hated being beholden to his phone, but Jack made it perfectly clear that he would tolerate no delay when he wanted a response _now_. And, now that Will had become in effect his employee, he felt entitled to Will’s time the moment he wanted it.

As usual, not really considering that Will had other work to complete.

But though Jack sent the majority of the messages, an occasional text would come in from Alana Bloom. She would usually open by showing caring or concern— ‘how was your first day working for Jack,’ or, ‘Would you like me to convince Jack to let this consulting thing go’—that kind of thing. Always a psychiatrist first. But then she’d ask after him and his dogs, and talk about her day at the conference and how she couldn’t wait to be getting home.

He didn’t tell her how many dogs. Although the disgusting way he’d inhaled his eggs at the IHop hadn’t turned her away, telling her he lived with _seven_ dogs, and in all likelihood would eventually acquire more, definitely would.

One or two dogs—three, even—people understood. But seven said ‘red flag’ loud and clear. Hell, it _screamed_ ‘red flag’, and all of its implications were true. He was an antisocial recluse. A hermit with difficulty forming connections with humans, who, despite his ability to _see _and _know_, and _understand_ people intimately, just didn’t _get_ people. Didn’t _like_ them.

God, and he would never tell her about the _knowing_ part of himself either. The empathy thing he did. It caused him enough trouble as a child growing up. He’d kept a tight lid on it ever since he’d finished school and entered the police force; granted, some of it snuck out during his stint in homicide, and how could it _not_, but mostly people chalked that up to him being some kind of freak, the kind of guy you were sure spent his free time building bombs in his basement. Not true, but that’s the kind of impression it left.

His classmates, then his coworkers and fellow officers—none of them had been sad to watch him go.

Better for her to just think him sensitive.

Alana was smart, though. And a psychiatrist, trained to see through those kinds of facades. If she didn’t figure him out eventually, then she’d at least come to view him as delicate, damaged. Nothing screamed relationship potential more than psychological fragility and truckloads of baggage, right?

Whatever his reservations were on that score, they didn’t stop him from diving for his phone whenever it chimed, in hopes of seeing her name on the notification.

This time, sitting on the floor of his workroom, the various hammers and keycaps scattered about him for his current project_—_some hipster wanted their vintage Underwood typewriter retooled to a dvorak keyboard setup, would wonders never cease_—_it chimed twice in rapid succession. He yanked it from his back pocket, fumbling to unlock it and open his messages.

Not Alana. An unknown number.

“Will,” he read aloud, noting the formatting, correct punctuation, and grammar. Stiff. Formal. _Doctor Lecter._

[_Will,_

_I have been considering some of our conversation regarding Gideon, and would like to review the questions I am preparing for our interview with him.]_

The second he read silently.

_[Are you located at all close to Baltimore? If you have the time, I would like to go over both my thoughts and the questions with you—in the evening, say, Thursday night? Alana tells me you are familiar with the location of my office._

_\- Hannibal Lecter._]

Less an invitation and more a summons. He frowned. Well, he’d worded it politely enough. Would he shave this time? Wear something in the same style, or something truer to his preferences and character? How would he behave in his own space, in that grandiloquent office with its manicured bushes outside and mezzanine library and unsettling art inside?

None of that mattered, of course. Just idle curiosity.

Before they’d departed Jack’s office, Will made it clear that he would defer the interview to the doctor. That Dr. Lecter wanted to consult with Will over the questions he’d planned showed courteousness. Something that Dr. Lecter prized highly. Courtesy, politeness. Aesthetics of appearance, aesthetics of behaviour.

He hesitated a moment as he considered how to reply. [_Wouldn’t say I’m close, but if it’s after rush hour, that’s fine_.] His thumb tapped send before he’d finished re-reading it, and his heart stuttered when he did; he could kick himself for his impulsivity. _Manners, Will_. [_Thanks for inviting me. What time works for you?]_ He read it over once and then hit send.

They settled on seven-thirty. He’d still have a little traffic to battle. The alternative the doctor proposed—that he could come by Will’s house instead—Will shot down immediately. He could accept some traffic if it meant keeping a stranger out of his house. He’d tolerated enough of that, lately.

_Oh, _he thought, suddenly remembering. _Freddie_.

The phone, which he had returned to his back pocket, came out once more. TattleCrime.com. How had he forgotten to check?

His intuition proved correct. Later than he thought it would be—much later. Posted only this morning, actually. But it shined up at him, in pride of place on her website: a photograph of him, Alana, and Jack, seated over eggs and coffee, beside another of him and Dr. Lecter stepping out through the doors at Quantico.

The headline, though…

That really took the cake.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as a general rule I try and update every other week on Thursdays. There may be some exceptions to that, around Nano and the holidays, but I'm typically about a chapter ahead at any given point (and striving to increase that margin!) so that should help cushion things so you don't ever have to go _too_ long without an update.  
If you want to be Nanowrimo buddies, add me! My username is Spwritely (I also have a (rather shoddy) website at www.spwritely.com, an IG@spwritely, and a twitter @writespwritely. They're all author pages, since I'm working on a novel, but some personal stuff shows up every so often.) I'd love to get to know you all a bit better!
> 
> Kudos tempt Hannibal to ask Will to dinner after work. Comments nudge Will to (reluctantly) accept.


	5. The [sic] is implied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 33-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Five

The [sic] is implied.

-+-

> **[[Incompetent FBI Hangs Hopes on Killer Catnip Will Graham]]**
> 
> If you’ve been following my previous reporting on Abel Gideon, recent confessor to and re-enactor of the Chesapeake Ripper’s murders [[LINK](https://www.waywardfannibal.com/tattlecrime-entree/)], you know that the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane may just be housing the most sought-after serial killer at large. For a high-profile Case like this one, one would hope that the FBI would be throwing all their best resources at it.
> 
> In fact, an anonymous source reports that Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit has invited Will Graham to consult on the case. He has also been spotted on multiple occasions meeting with Graham behind closed doors at Quantico. But just who is Will Graham?
> 
> On the surface, Graham is a dog-loving man that keeps mostly to himself. But he has connections that hint at something darker.
> 
> Eldon Stammets, The Mushroom Man [LINK], was captured and jailed not three months ago for the known murders of nine unnamed victims, and also for the crimes of kidnapping and false imprisonment. His victim for those later offenses? Will Graham. The same Will Graham the FBI is now asking to consult on Gideon’s Ripper claims.
> 
> What happened in the Stammets house during the two weeks of Grahams imprisonment? Stammets has said nothing, and has his supposed ‘victim’ has said just enough to fly under the radar. But this reporter smells something foul in the air, readers. A kidnapping and subsequent brush with death at the hands of a Serial Killer would keep a sane person away from other criminals like him. But Will Graham is diving into the Ripper Case head-first.
> 
> Does Agent Crawford hope that Graham’s rapport with killers will endear him to the Ripper? What can he have to offer that an established and respected Profiler does not? This reporter intends to find out. Stay tuned for updates.
> 
> Don’t forget to like and share—

Will stopped reading. He did not like. He did not share.

He _boiled_.

“Well,” he said, gripping his phone in his hand as he came to his feet, “won’t be getting any more work done today.”

The blast of winter air as he departed his backyard shed did nothing to cool his head. He whistled sharply and the dogs, still prancing around in the yard, perked up and tagged after him into the house. He wiped paws and scratched behind ears, even kissed a few snouts, as he let them inside, one by one, by order of seniority.

They knew the rules. _Good dogs_.

But even this familiar ritual didn’t pull the frown from his face, or release the clench of his jaw. Freddie Lounds had been a thorn in his side ever since she’d gotten a hold of his name—whoever her informant in law enforcement must be someone _real_ special—and identified him at the press conference.

He’d hoped that she would lose interest and leave him alone eventually—the trespassing he alluded to in the parking lot at Quantico had been no joke—but she’d formed some grand idea about him, and like a dog with a bone, wouldn’t let it go.

With this new article out and its insinuations about his character and ‘future updates’, he’d have to make the time to reinforce his fence, hang up the rest of the ‘no trespassing’ signs he bought in a fit of anger after the police had escorted her off the property.

That whole encounter—what a mess. He’d come out of his workroom in the back when the dogs started making a commotion, to find a strange car in his driveway. Shotgun at the ready, he crept around to the front of the house, only to find Miss Freddie Lounds kneeling at his front door, lockpicks in hand, trying to work the newly installed locks open, one by one.

“Stop right there,” he said, gun steady, Lounds in his sights.

She startled, raised her hands slowly, and turned around. Though she had a coy smile on her face, her eyes were wide and focused on his weapon. Will pulled his phone out and called the police right then. He’d hoped they would book her for breaking and entering, or trying to anyway, but they wouldn’t, and they couldn’t even charge her with trespassing. That night, he learned that technically it only became trespassing once he told her, verbally or otherwise, to get off his property—which he hadn’t done, just held her there at gunpoint until the uniforms showed up. The second he asked her to leave, she removed herself without complaint.

He’d gone out the next day, repaired all the holes in his fences, and bought a stack of signage to hang up every so many feet, just to make sure she wouldn’t repeat that little performance. He even started gating his driveway; a horrible inconvenience, but one he’d gladly suffer for the sake of privacy. About half-way through his sign-hanging operation, though, he lost steam, and the rest of them remained ready, under his little toolbox, next to his front door.

He glanced up from where he stoked up his fire, happy to see the tools and material just where he’d left them. Fire burning pleasantly, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it toward the door before pouring himself two fingers of whiskey and collapsing in his favorite chair.

Freddie Lounds. While he didn’t like most people, he downright hated Freddie.

Or maybe just people with ‘Fred’ in their names. He hadn’t taken a shine to Dr. Chilton either, after all.

He thought back, trying to pinpoint any possible dirt she might be able to dig up. She’d probably find someone from his time on the Force that would be willing to gossip about him. How he had been entirely unremarkable until he started working homicide. How creepy he acted at crime scenes. The one time he had a panic attack in the squad car after being first on the scene for The Crocodile’s debut murder. How, after months and months of obsessing over him, trying to track him down and arrest him, he’d ended up facing off with him instead.

How, even after getting stabbed in the shoulder, he still hadn’t been able to shoot. They’d probably call him a coward. A slander he could live with.

A chill coursed down his spine, remembering the way Leonard Marron had pinned him down, uncaring of the gun that Will held in his trembling hands, pressed against Lenny’s belly. The ghost of Lenny’s breath across his cheek and ear, the filth he whispered with that murderous, excited smile… Will’s skin crawled.

Lenny’s sweating palm as it cupped Will’s cheeks and squeezed, forcing Will’s lips to purse—and then the hollow darkness of his eyes. The pain that ricocheted down his arm and through Will’s body when Lenny finally thrust his knife into his shoulder. 

But he still couldn’t shoot.

Yeah. If Freddie got anyone to talk, they’d call him a coward for sure. But that was fine. Nobody knew the more sordid details—that he’d figured out The Crocodile’s identity, but instead of pursuing the arrest himself, called in the anonymous tip to the FBI, in order to preserve his peace at work (much good that did him in the end). Or what words had passed between him and Lenny in that dank shack, for the few brief minutes when they were alone. Before rescue came.

Jack hadn’t been Head of the BAU then, thankfully. Granted, Will looked much older now, and not just because of the passage of time—he’d been clean shaven then, tidy in his uniform, rosier and less cynical—but Jack had a good memory when it suited him; if he had been part of the team that brought The Crocodile to justice, he would have remembered Will when they met at Stammets’ house. Again, thankfully not the case.

He would find out about it from Freddie’s reporting eventually, and things would be awkward for a while, but Jack had already formed his ideas about Will. A trivial piece of new information like that wouldn’t change anything _now_. Maybe just shine a light on the spectacular awfulness of Will Graham’s luck.

Winston dropped his head on Will’s knee, and Will set down his empty glass of whiskey so he could pet the dog with both hands. He kissed the crown of the mutt’s head before shooing him away so he could clean up the house a little before bedtime.

“Freddie can try and dig up what she wants,” he said, voice loud in the stillness of the evening. “She won’t find anything.” And even if she did—which she wouldn’t—it would be so padded by lies and speculation anyway that whatever grains of truth existed wouldn’t matter in the slightest.

The matter settled, he opened the faucet and started on his dishes.

He left for Baltimore as late as he possibly could, hoping he wouldn’t be stuck in traffic for too long. As usual, his hopes received silence for an answer. The perennial construction on I-495 closed off one lane, and for a seventy-foot stretch, an accident closed down another; traffic bottlenecked for miles and slowed to a crawl.

He didn’t mind. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to meeting with Dr. Lecter. He would do his best to keep their meeting short. An hour’s drive each way for a (hopefully) half-hour long meeting might seem a little unjustified to anyone else, but not Will. Dr. Lecter had practically _promised_ future analytical ambushes. Being a psychiatrist, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself; a captive consultant in unfamiliar territory would be the perfect opportunity to stage just such an ambush.

The ringing of his phone curbed any further thought on the matter. His foot flooring the break pedal, Will leaned over to his winter coat in the passenger seat and rummaged through his pockets for the still-ringing phone. The name on the caller ID made his heart skipped a beat.

Panic filled him for a moment, wondering how to answer the phone, but then reason took over. He answered the way he would if he hadn’t seen the caller ID at all. “Graham.”

“Will,” came Alana Bloom’s voice down the line, warm and pleasant and much closer to his ear than it ever had been. It felt intimate.

“Alana,” he breathed, shaking his head to focus. “Hi.”

She laughed. “Feels a little odd to be on the phone.”

“It’s faster than texting,” he supplied, giving her an excuse.

“It is,” she agreed. A pause followed, and for a moment Will wondered if he had read her wrong. Maybe she didn’t have a specific agenda. Maybe she just wanted to talk. But her next words confirmed his suppositions. “Hannibal told me you met the other day. How did it go?”

A self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. The car ahead of him inched forward, and he let off the break a little. “I can’t discuss the particulars of an ongoing investigation, Doctor Bloom.”

“I meant with Hannibal, Will,” she said, her tone soft, kind. “Are you working well together?”

“Yeah,” he answered, realizing that really, they _had_ worked well together. “He’s knowledgeable.”

“He is,” she enthused. “And he scaffolds well. Has a way of phrasing questions that helps you to think through things, encourages you to get to the right conclusions.” By now, the praise _gushed_ from her. “Or at least, he did when I was still his mentee.” This qualification, offered with a sheepish laugh.

“I guess that makes him a good psychiatrist,” Will conceded. At last, the end of the bottleneck came into sight. Thirty or so cars ahead of him, and he’d be back into flowing traffic. The sooner he reached his destination, the sooner he could stop hearing Alana’s praise for the good doctor. Of course, once he got there, he’d have to deal with said doctor directly instead. Desperate to change the subject, Will said, “Better than Chilton by a long shot.”

A long pause. “You met Doctor Chilton?” Dissatisfaction simmered in her voice. “Tell me that Jack had him come to Quantico.”

“We went to him,” he answered. Now she would ask—

“Are you okay, Will?”

There. “He was polite enough.”

“That’s not what I’m referring to.”

Will eased his foot onto the accelerator, at last free from the tie-up. “You’re referring to Stammets being holed up there. It’s a big hospital, Alana.”

“That doesn’t mean that being in the same space as him won’t affect you.” She asserted, voice firm. “Are you okay?”

He wouldn’t tell her about the way Eldon had pleaded with him through the bars of his cell—the way his hands held the bars as though they were the only thing keeping him standing. How he’d looked like a shadow of himself. How Will’s heart had clenched at the sight. He wouldn’t tell her that he’d seen the man at all. “I’m fine. I’m more resilient than I look.”

“Well,” Alana said, sounding a little mollified at that, “if that changes, please reach out to someone, okay? We’re here to support you.”

“We?” he asked. Who did she include in that circle?

“Jack and Hannibal and I.”

He couldn’t say ‘no’ enough times to that. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he answered instead. Suddenly quite out of fuel for this conversation, he said, “Can I call you back tomorrow? I don’t mean to cut you off—I was sitting in traffic before but now I should really be paying attention to where I’m going.”

She sounded curious when she said, “Going somewhere? This late?” At his hum of agreement, she paused, probably waiting for him to say _where_, but when he remained silent, she tacked on, “We’ll talk tomorrow, then.”

He hung up, tossed the phone back on top of his coat. There couldn’t be more than thirty minutes left in the drive. He turned the burner under the cauldron of his thoughts down low, and let himself slip into that stream that stole time from him. Before he knew it, he found himself navigating narrow streets through progressively fancier neighborhoods, until he reached a row of familiar, intimidatingly perfect Baltimore Brownstones.

After parking the car, he turned off the engine, and, fingers still holding the key in the ignition, sat there in quiet contemplation. The last time he’d climbed those stone steps into Dr. Lecter’s waiting room, he hadn’t known what to expect. This time, he had a very clear picture. He knew the inside of that luxurious office. He knew the man that inhabited it.

In a way, anyway. Dr. Lecter, unlike most people Will met, seemed to house a lot of contradictions. A mystery lay under that posh exterior, one that had piqued a little of Will’s interest. If he set his mind to it, he could solve it. Something about the prospect appalled, something about it appealed. None of it mattered, though.

At the moment, he wanted to know just exactly one thing about Dr. Lecter, and that had everything to do with his relationship with Alana Bloom.

But he couldn’t just outright ask about it. Not with the subject of serial killers on the docket for the evening. With a deep breath held tightly in his chest, Will plucked the key from the ignition and grabbed his coat, scarf, and phone from the passenger seat to dress himself. Something like putting on armor before marching into battle.

“Psychiatrists,” he spat the word, then let himself out of his car.

He jaywalked across the street, pausing on his way up the steps to check his watch. Surprisingly, even despite the traffic and his dilly-dallying in the car, he still had time to kill. Not much, only a few minutes. Will usually erred on the side of ‘just on time’ to ‘a few minutes late,’ but that he’d left early enough for this to happen… he must have taken more from Dr. Lecter than he’d thought.

He raised a fist and knocked on the door. Dr. Lecter had left it unlocked for him, he knew, just as he knew that the sound of the knock wouldn’t reach the doctor from here, with the waiting room between them, but he needed a minute.

Sometimes people were like pigments. Some were thin, translucent, like watercolors; others were densely pigmented, India inks. If he touched them—if he _saw_ them—they would leave some of their color on him. Watercolor people left barely visible impressions, washed away with his morning’s shower. Ink people stained his skin, sunk in deep below the surface. They’d stay with him for days; if he wasn’t careful, they could linger longer. Mark him. Like a tattoo.

That kind of influence took years to wash off.

He must have been watching for Will’s car, because the door popped open, and there stood the doctor, looking like the version of himself that matched the office; clean shaven, a subtle blue, green, and brown plaid pattern in his suit and waistcoat, contrasting a monochromatic paisley tie.

He’d have to be careful with Dr. Lecter, unless he wanted to start wasting his fortune on pretentious art and three-piece suits. Or, God forbid, acting like a shrink.

“Will. You’re right on time.” Dr. Lecter glanced down at his—that would be a _timepiece_, something fine, something quality, something that one wouldn’t call a ‘watch’—and the little smile of greeting on his face morphed ever so slightly into something that appeared genuine. “A little early, even. Please, come in.”

The office felt different now that he shared the space with Dr. Lecter instead of Dr. Bloom. Before it had felt incongruous, over-large, grandiloquent. Now, it felt natural. Cozier, by comparison. Dr. Lecter took up a lot of space, _owned_ the space around him, and moved about as familiarly in this room as though it were his home. The fire burning in the hearth probably also helped; it warmed the room, literally and metaphorically.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” he said. “May I take your coat?”

This politeness Will conceded to, though it robbed him of his outer shell. His armor. He unzipped his coat and started to shrug out of it, when the doctor stepped behind him and with a light, deft touch that allowed for only a minimal amount of contact, assisted in its removal. Will stumbled a little as he moved away, scarf caught on Lecter’s finger and pulling off from the back of his neck. “Uh—thanks,” he mumbled.

Maybe it was just city people that had a different concept of a personal bubble? Things were bigger in the country, personal bubbles included.

Lecter, finished hanging up the coat and scarf, ushered Will over to the same black leather chairs that he and Dr. Bloom had sat in together all those months before. “Have a seat please. Can I offer you something to drink? Wine perhaps, or whiskey?”

Will, plunked down in his chair and glanced up at the doctor. He now stood before a cabinet, key dangling in the lock, a hand on the neck of a decanter of wine. “Whiskey, if you have it.” Will chewed his lip to keep quiet, but couldn’t help himself. “You drink with your patients?”

Hannibal’s smile as he reached for a pair of whiskey glasses—_trust him to have the appropriate glassware for every drink in his cabinet_—was the kind of smile a little boy got when he opened a gift he’d been waiting days to unwrap. “Never. After they’ve gone, on occasion. Or, perhaps, when a friend comes to call.”

A _friend_.

He poured out two fingers into each, from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, one which he’d apparently already made inroads into. He walked over to Will and handed him the glass, taking his own with him as he settled in the opposite chair. His long fingers unbuttoned the front of his coat and he crossed his legs as he settled in.

“Before we begin,” Dr. Lecter said, head tilting fractionally to the side. _Curious_. _Always curious_. “I have found myself wondering. You’ve mentioned your background in homicide; may I ask about your current profession?”

Will shrugged. “Mechanical repair. Engines. Typewriters. That kind of thing.”

A paused followed, in which Dr. Lecter remained perfectly still. _Processing_. “That must occupy a lot of your time,” he ventured at last.

“Not really. It’s a hobby that I’ve monetized. Something to keep me busy.”

“Ah,” Dr. Lecter said, peering at him a little closer. He wouldn’t be boorish enough to ask, but Will knew he’d already come to his own conclusions. And he would be correct. Will was independently wealthy, though by no means a rich man.

His father had passed not a year after Will retired from the Force, leaving him with a tidy inheritance. With good financial advice and wisely chosen investments, he could afford to live a simple life on the interest. Billy Graham had always been taken with the idea of leaving a legacy to his family. He’d hoped that Will would marry and produce some offspring to pass it down to, and maybe someday his dream would come to fruition—Will thought briefly of Alana. It wouldn’t be enough to keep a family in comfort, of course, but for a single man who owned his car and home outright, it more than sufficed.

“It is difficult to equate one’s clinical practice to a hobby, of course, particularly with a caseload as large as my own,” Dr. Lecter was saying, “but my approach to work is much like yours. Something to keep my mind active, my skills sharp.”

Will could tell at once that Dr. Lecter came from money. The elegance, the lack of pomposity, spoke of an ease with wealth that came from finding it familiar. “Where is your family from, if I may ask?”

“Lithuania,” he answered before sipping his drink. 

Will followed his lead and sampled the whiskey. _Dignified, nutty, dry_. “Mm,” he hummed in approval, raising his glass in a silent toast. He’d be happy to sit in silence and enjoy his beverage; he would wait for Dr. Lecter to speak.

“Returning to the matter at hand, I have taken the liberty of writing,” Dr. Lecter looked meaningfully over at the desk, “a series of questions for Abel Gideon. If you wouldn’t mind reviewing it in a moment?” Will nodded. 

“Have you formed any impressions regarding Doctor Chilton’s possible role in Gideon’s identity crisis?”

Will shrugged. 

The doctor’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “Were you aware that Doctor Chilton consulted during the last grouping of Ripper murders?”

“Sounder,” Will corrected, under his breath, the word slipping from between his lips before he could exert the control to stop it.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Lecter leaned forward, clear interest written on his face.

He’d heard it just fine, Will knew. He would have to explain; he cursed his thoughtlessness. “A—uh, a sounder.” He cleared his throat. “A murder of crows, a congress of owls, a sounder of pigs. That’s, that’s how he sees them.” Amusement brightened Dr. Lecter’s eyes, though he did not precisely smile. Will felt the pull of those dark pools, irises tinged carmine in the low, warm lighting, and blinked, shook his head to break the eye contact, before returning his gaze to the safety of his glass. The way the pads of his fingers whitened where they pressed against it. “I didn’t know. About Chilton.”

“Nor did I, until Jack disclosed it in conversation yesterday.”

“If Gideon knows some details about the scenes…”

“Things that were not made public. Yes, my thinking exactly.”

Will found himself looking up again, gaze drawn as though magnetized. He frowned, coming to his feet, looked about the room for safe harbor before wandering over to Dr. Lecter’s desk.

This consulting gig had turned out to be much more involved than expected. He thought they’d sit him down in a room at Quantico, he’d review a file, look at some evidence, write up a report and be done with it. But here he was, one crime scene visit later, spending an evening ostensibly polishing up interview questions for its perpetrator.

He ran his fingers along the edge of the dark wood, tapped them against the corner as he maneuvered around it. “You think he might be capable of steering Gideon in that direction. Getting him to believe that he’s the Ripper?” He looked back over his shoulder at the doctor, before focusing on the objects on the desk once more. He couldn’t stand the gentle amusement in Lecter’s smile just now.

“I believe it’s an avenue worth investigating,” he said, and the sounds of shifting limbs, the soft sigh of the chair as Dr. Lecter stood, preceded his movement to stand beside Will, a hair closer than Will felt comfortable with. The doctor pulled a slim notebook—_hardcover, case bound, no discernable branding_—from a drawer and set it before Will on the desk.

Will accepted the wordless invitation, sipping from his drink as he flipped the cover open. It lay flat on the table, it’s heavy, cream-colored paper satisfyingly toothsome under the stroke of his fingers. Dr. Lecter’s name had been printed in gold on the cover page. _Custom-made by some fancy stationer to his exact specifications_. He flipped to the next page, and there, in a perfect Spencerian hand, were the questions Dr. Lecter had planned.

For twenty minutes, they talked through the proposed list. Beside him, Dr. Lecter read over his shoulder, his body inclined ever so slightly closer to Will than it had been before. “This looks good,” Will said, noting the phrasing of some of the questions. ‘_He has a way of phrasing questions that helps you to think through things, encourages you to get to the right conclusions,’_ Alana had said_._ He agreed. “You’ll be leading the interview? I’d like to be present, in case I think of anything, but I defer to your expertise here.” Will stepped back from the desk.

Dr. Lecter’s lips parted, and he angled his body to face Will more directly. “If you wish.” At last, the doctor came to the end of his drink. He set his glass down on a black stone coaster, centering it on the small square. He paused, closing the notebook, aligning its edge with the edge of the desk. _Perfectionist. Control freak. _“Jack has seemed more than satisfied with your insights. I confess I have been, as well.”

“You sound surprised,” Will said, smiling through the words a little.

“You seem adept at taking their perspectives. Both Gideon’s and the Ripper’s.”

The smile fell from Will’s face. His grip on the whiskey tightened.

“But not only their points of view. I imagine you can do so with anyone. What you see and learn touches every part of your mind. What kinds of diagnoses have been thrown at you, I wonder?”

Will pivoted smartly, downed the remainder of his drink in one go, and made for the cabinet, still open, Johnnie Walker invitingly positioned in the front. The amber liquid splashed inside his glass as he poured another finger, set the bottle down without a shred of delicacy in his movement. “Don’t—please don’t psychoanalyze me.” He stared down at the still rippling alcohol. “You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

Dr. Lecter let loose a single huffing laugh, shook his head and raised both hands. A placating gesture, rather than an apologetic one. He wouldn’t apologize. They’d already discussed that much. “I promise not to try and diagnose you, Will, if that offers any comfort.”

“Good. I’m not your patient.”

Lecter’s upper lip pursed, his lower tucked in a little under it. Like a pout but upside down. Thoughtful, maybe? “No, you are not.” The tension melted from his face. _A decision made_. “And this is not a session—just a conversation.”

Will felt his shoulders relax, his jaw unclench. He touched his glass to his lips, remembering Dr. Lecter’s earlier words that he might drink once the patients had left, or with a friend. “You make a habit of psychoanalyzing your friends, Doctor?”

“If I do, my friends show me understanding and extend forgiveness,” he replied, eyeing the glass that Will had helped himself to. “We are, after all in my office. It’s easy to fall into the habits of my profession, when in the space in which I practice it.”

Yes, that would be his excuse, wouldn’t it? Will meandered back to his seat, pausing to examine the statue of a stag, to trail his fingers over the surface of the desk on his way.

Once seated, he splayed his fingers over his thigh, watching the shadows move between each finger, then brought his hands together and laced them to keep them still. Better to keep to the topic at hand; somehow they kept straying, talking about themselves, each other. He could voice his suspicions; Dr. Lecter had asked after all. No need to beat around the bush. “I think Chilton must have believed the story himself, to try and convince him.”

Dr. Lecter resumed his seat as well. “Do you believe he planted the idea unintentionally, then?”

“Not that, exactly,” Will chewed on his lip, “just that he had conviction in his own beliefs, when he did whatever he did to Gideon to convince him too.”

“Your perception is that Gideon _is_ convinced.” Dr. Lecter crossed his legs, and Will found himself shifting to mimic the movement, but stopped himself in time. He unlaced his fingers and splayed them wide over his thigh again, the texture tickling his palm, distracting him from the man before him.

“Honestly, I think the murder of the night nurse was him striking out,” Will said, after a contemplative silence had fallen between them. “We didn’t accept his confessions immediately. The questioning of his identity must be a blow to a man who doesn’t have a solid grasp on who he is. So he killed her, to prove to us—and to himself—that he is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“A persuasive argument,” Dr. Lecter murmured, eyeing the desk. He got up and retrieved his notebook. “Especially given the lack of an escape attempt.”

“I think he _wants _us to interview him,” Will added. Dr. Lecter had an interesting grip on his pen as he started writing. “_I _would. I would want the chance to make it perfectly clear, without a shadow of a doubt. Because if he can convince us, it makes it easier to convince himself.” He frowned. “I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Dr. Lecter leaned forward, interest shining in his eyes. “What shoe is that?”

“The Ripper won’t take kindly to someone claiming his work, or to someone plagiarizing him.” He paused. “He’s biding his time now, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s working up to something.”

“There have been no Ripper murders for over two years,” Dr. Lecter contradicted. “It’s equally as likely that he is dead, rather than waiting.”

Will shook his head slowly. “No—I don’t think so.” He leaned in, bracing himself on his elbows, propped up on his knees. “Technically you’re right. It’s a coin toss whether he’s dead or just retired. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still out there. He’s not the kind of man to fade into obscurity, in death or otherwise.”

Dr. Lecter smiled faintly. “Do you find these instincts of yours are often right?”

“Generally,” Will said, looking up and meeting the doctor’s eyes, just this once. “Yeah.”

Laughter shined in Dr. Lecter’s eyes, though he made no response. 

The conversation lulled, creating an opening for Will to make his escape, but he found that he didn’t expressly want to. Sure, it would be nice to get going home now. And yet he felt reluctant to leave. He rarely met someone who he could count an intellectual equal. 

And, while Dr. Lecter might show amusement or curiosity or interest, he rarely showed judgment. His feelings were so light on his face that it seemed as though nothing they spoke of affected him deeply. _Nothing, and nobody affects him deeply. Someone who has trouble connecting with others, _Will surmised. It probably explained his selfishness, too.

‘Trouble connecting’ seemed to be a running theme throughout his life recently. Himself and Stammets suffered from the same condition as well.

Despite his warring desire to remain, to enjoy the intelligent and insightful conversation, he stuck to his initial plans and took his leave once the purpose of this visit had been completed. “I’ll apologize in advance,” Will said, coming to his feet, “in case I interrupt you while you’re doing the talking.”

Dr. Lecter inclined his head in acceptance. “Going so soon?”

“It’s a long drive back to Wolf Trap.”

Dr. Lecter approached him and reached out a hand for his empty glass. Will passed him the cup, and their fingers brushed, drawing Will’s eye. When the long, tapered fingers with their neatly manicured nails, the veins running along the backs, the lines along the palms, all were immediately recognizable and familiar, he realized that he’d been staring at them during the previous conversation. He drew his own hand back. “Thanks for the drink.”

“I expect that we’ll see a satisfactory conclusion to the Gideon case once we’ve had a chance to speak to him,” Dr. Lecter said, still standing just this side of too close, holding onto the two glasses. “I had expected more of an intellectual challenge from this case, if I am to be quite honest.”

Will, who had turned for the door, pivoted sharply to face the doctor. “You did? I was thinking when I got here how much work this whole thing turned out to be. It all seemed pretty cut and dry from the outset, new murder included.”

“Ah, but I did not have the benefit of your insight. I approached the problem with an open mind. At least on the surface, the possibility existed that Gideon’s claims might not be false.” He had worked his way back to the cabinet, and deposited the glasses on its glass-covered counter. “Perhaps a part of me hoped to find the Ripper in Gideon. The Chesapeake Ripper seems to lend an air of mystique to anything he touches, but as he has not been involved after all…” His shoulder might have raised, or there might have been a shrug suggested in the tone of his voice.

Dr. Lecter now passed Will, heading toward the door. Will’s eyes tracked the doctor’s movement, nose taking in the scent of the bright, spicy cologne drifting along behind him. He trailed along in its wake.

“The, uh, the desire to touch greatness?”

A sphynx-like tic of his lips upward, before Dr. Lecter inclined his head in acceptance. “In a manner of speaking. And regardless of the lack of challenge, I believe the victory sufficient cause for celebration. I would like to invite you to dinner when it’s done. Would you mind very much, making the drive back out to Baltimore?”

Will froze. He had never mastered the mores of social interaction, and polite refusals were something outside of his experience. “I—”

“I guarantee that the food will not disappoint,” Dr. Lecter said, a little roguishness seeping into his smile. “I have been known to produce well-reviewed meals in the past. From what I understand, there are many who would die for a seat at my table. Alana frequents it regularly and is always angling for another invitation.”

Will’s lips closed, trapping the impulsive words that wanted to leap from his mouth.

“Jack has already accepted, though we have yet to set a date. Alana, though not involved directly, will even the number at the table, and though I have yet to ask her, I am certain she will accept. Will you join us, Will?”

For a moment he toyed with the news that Dr. Lecter had chosen to invite Alana, _not involved_ with the case, rather than Beverly, Price, and Zeller, who _were_. The numbers would even out in that case, too. Granted, Dr. Lecter had _some sort_ of relationship with Alana, and only a cursory acquaintance with the forensics team, but the move still reeked of a kind of classism that had Will wondering how _he_ had managed to make the invite list.

“I’m pretty busy,” Will said, hoping Dr. Lecter would read between the lines.

“Then we’ll fix on a date on which you’re available,” Dr. Lecter said, and gave him a smile loaded with such charm that Will _knew_ Lecter had been aware of the intended refusal, the attempt to let him down easy, but had no notion of taking anything but ‘yes’ for an answer.

Will’s nod felt jerky, and he had to think for a second about the coordination of arm and leg movements as he aimed himself at the door and the doctor beside it. Dr. Lecter plucked Will’s outerwear from their hooks, handed Will the scarf and busied himself with arranging the coat in his hands so that he could assist Will in donning it.

The soft pressure of Dr. Lecter’s hand on his shoulder to cue him to turn, the way his hands smoothed the collar of the coat down were both impersonal and yet intensely personal. For the doctor these touches were borne from courtesy, but Will, who acceded to them reluctantly, had grown used to an isolated life with little to no human touch.

Even Stammets hadn’t taken such thoughtless liberties when Will stayed with him. Then again, Eldon’s life paralleled Will’s in a number of ways. Isolationism they shared in spades.

Dr. Lecter walked Will through the private exit and settled his hand on the knob of the exterior door, arm like an iron band blocking Will’s way out. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon,” he said, fixing his crimson gaze on Will’s face.

For the space of a breath, Will met his eyes. 

A mistake. 

He shuddered, dropping his gaze and nodding. “Tomorrow,” he repeated, trying to control the turmoil in his stomach.

The door popped open under Dr. Lecter’s hand, and Will stepped out into the cold. It hit him like a brick wall, freezing his throat, freezing his stomach, and he swallowed convulsively to keep the whiskey in his roiling belly instead of coming up. He fled down the stairs to his car, shoes crushing prints into the half-inch or so of snow that had fallen on the road, fumbling with his keys as he went.

Once inside, he rested arms on the steering wheel and laid his forehead against them, taking in slow, measured breaths.

For a second there, he saw a familiar promise, something dark in the fathomless depths of Lecter’s eyes. Maybe it was no more than a shadow of Stammets, since the man had been on his mind. He could even chalk it up to the creeping sense of unease that had followed him ever since he’d read Freddie’s article. Or even, the off sensation that clung to him after his exposure to the horrific mutilations of the night nurse, in person.

Maybe he could even attribute it to the inquietude that began months ago, to the days he spent with Eldon. To the days when time had started slipping away from him. Stammets was an ink person—he had left his imprint, and Will still struggled to wash it off.

He started the engine and made the hour-long drive home in a daze.

When he reached the locked gate at the end of his driveway, the daze evaporated in an instant, replaced by alertness on overdrive. Tire-tracks through the snow and mud, past the gate line. He parked, got out of the car and bent to examine the padlock that held the gate closed. It had been broken, cut with a lock-cutter, and left hanging there to keep the door from flying open in the wind.

The sense of internal cold that he’d felt at Dr. Lecter’s office returned full-force. He grabbed his phone, took pictures of the tire tracks, the padlock, then unhooked it from the gate so he could swing it wide. He drove carefully, so that he didn’t muck up the other tire-tracks (made by two different cars, he noted) on his way up to the house. He returned to the gate on foot and used the broken lock to keep the gate closed, if not locked, and called the police.

The call finished before he got back to the house. He’d been advised to stay outside, to wait by his car, and had every intention of doing just that. But then he caught sight of a small parcel next to his front door, and his heart skittered to a stop.

He took a plethora of pictures of this too, when he noticed that the parcel had been opened. Suddenly, he felt fairly certain about at least one of his visitors.

If Freddie had opened the package, though, that meant she wasn’t the one who left it there. With quaking fingers, he opened the box to catch a peek inside at a folded piece of copy paper and a 4 by 6 moleskine notebook. He pushed the top flap of the paper and at the sight of the words, he stopped breathing.

The crunching of gravel close by sent him into a panic; he tossed the package into his backseat before he could think anything further.

The police had arrived. It took hours for them to clear the house—quite a task with all the dogs—call in a proper detective once they realized that Will was a witness to a crime awaiting trial, process the tire tracks, and collect further evidence from the area around the house. Lounds had broken into his work shed, too, as it turned out. The neat little piles of hammers and keycaps from his typewriter project had been disturbed.

“She wrote an article about me, promising further investigation,” Will informed the detective from where he sat on the bumper of his car. “And I caught her trying to break in once before. There should be a report.”

The detective took careful notes on his pad. “We called Jack Crawford. Do you remember him?” At Will’s nod, the detective tucked the notepad away in his coat’s interior pocket. “He’s on his way already. Feel free to go on inside. House is clear.”

Will called Jack the second the front door closed behind him. Jack picked up after the first ring. “Everything’s fine,” Will said by way of greeting. “The detectives have it handled. You don’t need to come.”

“_Will_.” A threat in his voice.

“I’m tired. I’ve had a long day. I just want to go to sleep. I’m seeing you tomorrow anyway. Can we just talk then?” It took some convincing, but Jack eventually relented.

Once the police presence withdrew, Will went back to his car to retrieve the package. After feeding the dogs, he settled down at his kitchen table and opened the box once more. The folded paper on top he didn’t need to look at—he’d seen it a million times already—but he unfolded it anyway.

A photocopy of Stammets’ letter. This would end up on TattleCrime for certain, if Freddie had managed to photograph it. Something had interrupted her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have left before getting into the house. Hopefully it interrupted her before she could snap a pic.

The notebook came out next. It was a beat-up old thing—the edges of the pages soft and worn, little scratches and scuff-marks on its leather cover.

He flipped it open, holding his breath in his chest.

One word written in ballpoint, scrawled into the page over and over again, nearly perforating it.

“I”

He flipped open to the next spread. Again, one word per page, carved into the paper. _Pen held in a tightly clenched fist._

“KNOW”

“WHO”

Flip.

“YOU”

“ARE”

Flip.

“MR”

“GRAHAM”

He flipped the page to more of the same. Over and over again, for one hundred and eighty pages.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE MR GRAHAM. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a few hours later than usual; I got carried away with writing ahead today and it totally slipped my mind. No clever enticements.


	6.  To Will Graham, From Eldon Stammets, c/o BSHCI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (At least a part of) what you've all been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 26-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Six

To Will Graham, From Eldon Stammets, c/o BSHCI.

-+-

Will sighed into the darkness of his bedroom, lying safe in his own bed, mutts sprawled on the floor around him, as he stared blankly at the ceiling above. He closed his eyes briefly, and an echo of sweet earth and pine needles flitted up from memory.

Eldon’s garden.

A few months before he found Winston and brought him home, Will had taken his pack of—then six—dogs with him on a day trip to the national park. He’d left the car behind at one of the trailheads, and in the company of his furred friends, hiked into the forest.

When they reached the end of the out-and-back, Will, energetic and with time on his hands, forged ahead into the underbrush past the end of the sanctioned trail. One eye periodically checking his compass and the other on his map, he made his way through the wood, pausing only to throw sticks for the dogs, or to count heads and then pet them. After about an hour of off-roading it, he realized that he’d stumbled upon a somewhat worn-in path in the underbrush. Not a hiking trail. Maybe a deer trail? He rerouted to follow it, dogs tagging excitedly at his heels as he worked his way over roots, dodging branches, deeper into the wood.

He would have kept going past the place where the little-worn path disappeared, were it not for the dogs, all sniffing away industriously at a patch of mushrooms not twenty feet off from the crushed undergrowth that guided him. His eye caught on some tubing, tied to a tree and running down into the ground—and then, as he neared, on the human hand that Buster’s quivering nose pressed against, propped out of the dirt patch.

Will’s breath seized in his throat. When the tide of panic receded, he whistled sharply at the dogs, who raised their heads and came to attention before him. He sent them back to the path, had them sit and stay, and then returned to the little mushroom garden they had been investigating.

Seven graves, dug shallow, each with a hand poking out, connected to an IV line that fed the decaying limbs a clear liquid. He knelt down by the freshest-looking of the bunch, the one with the least surrounding mushrooms, and gently touched his fingers to the flesh. Cold to the touch, but the kind of cold one associated with skin exposed to the elements; not the icy cold of death.

Who had done this?

He glanced around him, and though one of the dogs let out a small whine, he could see nobody else nearby on cursory inspection.

_I should call the police._

But he didn’t. Instead, he took in the air, the peaceful calm of the little clearing, and fell into a sort of trance as he observed the mushrooms. The way that a cluster had been plucked, the stumps of their stems blemishing the surface of the older grave. A lot of care had gone into putting this little garden together. But not for the people within the graves; the breathing tubes that penetrated the topsoil appeared dirty, almost an afterthought.

The care was for the mushrooms.

It surprised him how much latent emotion settled in the air in this little space. He felt his eyes tear up and wiped a drop away before it could make its way down his cheek. Whoever had done this… this was someone who had difficulty communicating with others. Understanding others. “You must have been lonely,” Will said, voice soft, fingers digging a little to touch the carefully turned soil over the gravesite. “You must be so lonely.”

No answer came, of course, only Buster’s piteous whine. The sound startled Will from his trance, and he reached out to touch the hand once more before heading back to the lot where he’d parked his car.

Days later he remembered his resolution to call the police, but then Buster brought a half-dead rabbit into his house, blood trailing behind its broken body as it dragged along the living room floor, and amid the distraction of disciplining and cleaning, the idea dissolved entirely from his mind.

Head on his pillow, Will found himself grateful that he’d forgotten to make that call. The scent of Eldon’s garden had grown pungent in his nose. It could be just his imagination, drawing on the sensory memory he had been picturing so vividly in his mind’s eye, but it _felt_ real. This olfactory memory wouldn’t be so strong if he had called in what he’d seen. 

Or if he’d stayed on the maintained trails instead of wandering off into the trees. Alana had been right about this much: Will didn’t fit Stammets’ victim profile at all. If he’d never gone on that walk, Eldon would never have thought to kidnap him. 

He’d wanted to ask Eldon himself about it, of course, but he hadn’t needed to, in the end. At some point during Will’s involuntary visit, Stammets told him as much himself. 

“I recognized you,” Eldon had said, eyeing Will over the edge of his beer glass. “You’d just come in to pick up some prescriptions for your dogs a few days before, so I recognized you right away.” He’d paused then to lean in, as though about to divulge some great secret. “I saw you in my little garden, the way you caressed my mushrooms, touched the hand closest to you… I could have killed you, then.”

“What stopped you?” Will asked, breath captive in his chest, eyes rapt on Eldon’s.

“I heard you speak. It felt like the whole forest went quiet just to listen. And once you were finished, I couldn’t kill you anymore.” 

He’d seen something in Will. 

Eldon, like the mycelium, had been reaching out for something. Seeing Will react to his garden made it clear to him just exactly what he had been reaching for. Connection, yes, but not in the way he’d been pursuing it in the past. He wanted someone to know him, to accept him. Someone who would _see_.

And so he had taken Will when the opportunity struck.

Now free from Stammets, though, Will realized that Eldon had not been the only one to take something by imprisoning him. Will had taken something, too. 

Eldon’s letter lay on his chest, his hands pressing it against his naked skin. One of his fingers caressed the seam where he had creased and re-creased the paper from all the opening and folding he had done since its delivery.

_A token_, he thought, closing his eyes and not bothering to cover himself to ward off the chill. He’d be sweltering hot and sweating in a moment; he’d grown used to the pattern by now. _No—not a token, _he decided, lashes fluttering restlessly one last time. And then, as he drifted off to sleep:

_A trophy._

-+-

> Will,
> 
> My lawyer has encouraged me to write to you, to show repentance for my actions, to apologize; he says it will help in court, for the charges relating to your treatment, at least. So here I am, and here is this letter. I hope you found your dogs well. I’ve been asking about them, about you, but nobody will tell me anything, of course.
> 
> You have your house, the dogs. I no longer have my garden.
> 
> What I offered was a rare thing. True understanding and companionship are only a dream. We cannot be connected with words. We cannot be connected with shared experiences. But the dream is not entirely unattainable. When mankind is dead and buried, whatever follows behind us and consumes the fruits of our flesh will carry forward with it a piece of our souls. Through them, we will continue reaching, continue reaching back, continue searching. I have found comfort in the knowledge that I need reach out and search no longer. I cultivated those connections, facilitated them in others. Perhaps not enough for others’ standards; or maybe too much, in the eyes of the general public. But enough to satisfy me.
> 
> Maybe it is because of this that I can be easy, despite the predicament I find myself in.
> 
> I hope that you can be easy too, Will.
> 
> If you can’t, consider finding your way to my garden. I will know you are there. I will be reaching for you, and waiting for the day when you can reach back.
> 
> Eldon Stammets.

-+-

On the one hand, Hannibal appreciated that Freddie Lounds would go to any length to ferret out a story, once she found something to sink her claws into. On the other hand, he disagreed with her ethics insofar as her tendency to fabricate interesting tidbits where reality failed to satisfy. Generally, this duality formed the extent of his thoughts on the matter. The moment that he saw the headline on her homepage this morning, however, he felt forced to add another pair of divided feelings: the satisfaction at peeking into the mystery of Will Graham and Eldon Stammets, warring with the offense he took on Will’s behalf, that a personal letter of his had been shared for all to see.

He felt no guilt when he clicked the link, however, only a sense of the comedy of the moment. Anyone would feel themselves foolish, falling for a headline such as this: “Mushroom Man Letter Promises Death to Will Graham! With Analysis!”

The analysis merited nothing more than skimming over, but Hannibal read and reread the letter throughout the course of the morning. He could understand Miss Lounds reading a promise of death into the words. He might have reached that conclusion himself, had he not been privy to their interaction at the BSHCI.

In his opinion, the letter expressed a certain sense of romance, though to call it a ‘love letter’ might be a stretch. Eldon Stammets’ eyes shined with a hunger when he looked upon Will from behind the bars of his cell, though not of the culinary or carnal variety.

He recalled the almost pained insistence in Will’s voice on the recording as he explained Stammets to Alana. ‘He doesn’t _hate_ people, he—he doesn’t _understand_ them. He doesn’t get them. But he—he understands connection. He _craves_ connection. The mushrooms, by planting those victims in his garden, he connects them to one another the best way he knows.’

Hannibal had lost interest in Stammets upon hearing those words. The Benevolent Killer, bestowing a mercy on his victims, would not pique Hannibal’s curiosity. Now he revised his opinion. Certainly, Stammets had conferred a favor upon them, by granting them the connection he could not forge for himself. How dull. And yet, Stammets’ understanding of what connection meant might make him a sort of cannibal as well, though one degree removed.

His interest in Stammets, revitalized though it may be, paled when compared to the point that _truly_ held Hannibal’s attention captive. _I have found comfort in the knowledge that I need reach out and search no longer. I hope that you can be easy too, Will. If you can’t, consider finding your way to my garden. I will know you are there. I will be reaching for you, and waiting for the day when you can reach back._

Eldon Stammets had found what he was looking for: true understanding and companionship. Someone that saw him for who he was and would accept him regardless. And he had found that in Will Graham.

While Hannibal had promised not to try and diagnose Will, he had formed his opinions regarding the man’s near-magical perception, his ability to understand anyone. His incredible empathy. If he tried, Will might be able to take someone’s perspective so wholly that he could _become_ them, in a manner of speaking. He seemed to do this to some degree often enough, unconscious though it may be. The offense he had taken both on Stammets’ and the Ripper’s behalves, for being misunderstood, acted as proof enough of that. 

This would explain, then, why Will had eaten the mushrooms.

But what had motivated him to connect with Stammets? Purely a sense of survival? Will had been Stammets’ captive for nearly two weeks—for one as empathetic as he, captor bonding seemed likely to have played a large part. Or: had Will come to the decision voluntarily, out of curiosity?

_Quite the puzzle, this Will Graham._

This very puzzle occupied his thoughts as he strode down the hallway to Jack Crawford’s office that afternoon. His pace slowed as he approached; even here, he could hear Jack’s voice booming, anger written into the harsh tones and high decibels. Hannibal took a delicate sniff of the air; he caught the scent of dog and engine grease. What sort of trouble had Will gotten into, that Jack should be reprimanding him so?

He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

The yelling stopped immediately. A moment of silence, before a red-faced Will Graham opened the office door and let him in. “Doctor Lecter,” he greeted in a mumble before making his way to his seat—the same one he had taken the last time they visited Jack’s office.

“Will, Jack.” Jack’s cheeks had taken on some color as well. “I appear to have interrupted something.”

“Doctor Lecter. Maybe you can help me talk some sense into him.” Jack sounded exasperated. Hannibal inclined his head, awaiting further information. “Will here has withheld information from an investigation—”

“That’s _ridiculous_, Jack,” Will ground out, interrupting the man before he could expand. “I was planning on coming here today, anyway, and I didn’t want to go through the whole police hoop—”

“You should have given it to the police _while they were there_,” Jack insisted.

Will’s “It wasn’t _there_ while they were there—” and Jack’s “If you think for a moment that—” were uttered simultaneously, and Hannibal reached the limits of his tolerance. He cleared his throat, and much to his satisfaction both men silenced themselves and turned in his direction.

“Perhaps you might explain more clearly what has happened.”

Jack thumped down into his seat, a mulish set to his jaw, irritation glinting in his eyes as he gestured vaguely for Will to go ahead. Will, who had made himself as small as possible in his seat while remaining upright, straightened before he spoke. “I got home last night to find that someone had jimmied the lock on my gate and tried to break into my house. There were two sets of tire tracks.” He explained. “So I called the police. They cleared the house—” he shot a quelling look at Jack when the man grunted his dissatisfaction. “When I opened the door to let out one of the dogs later on that night, there was a box on my front porch. I brought it in today.”

“Beverly took it down to evidence a while ago,” Jack clarified, when Hannibal’s eyes skimmed the surface of the desk, looking for said package. “You should have called it in, Will. As a former officer, I would _think_—"

“That I would know exactly how that would go down? Because I do.” Will interrupted again, the reddened tint in his cheeks darkening. “I would have to sit out in the cold for hours and they wouldn’t have found anything. The lock on the gate was broken already, and the snow wiped out any tracks. I _brought_ the box. Just let it go.”

“What did it contain, if I may ask?”

“You must not read TattleCrime,” Jack said, sighing. Hannibal _did_, but why correct him?

Before Jack could answer further, Will piped up again. “I think Freddie came to _investigate_,” this, laden with sarcasm and emphasized with air quotes, “but scattered when she saw headlights. Someone dropped off the package, and she took it with her to take her pictures before returning later in the night to drop it off.”

“Then why only post pictures of the letter? Why not the notebook?”

_Notebook_?

“I don’t know—to keep it back for a future article? Who understands the way Freddie thinks.”

Ah. _A lie_. _A lie, somewhere in this tale._ Hannibal kept his face still. _What secrets are you keeping, Will Graham?_

“This is potentially _three_ trespassers in one night, Will.” Jack ground out. “Even assuming it’s only two, this is not a joke. Freddie aside, who knows what your other visitor is planning? Don’t forget that you’re a key witness for Stammets’ trial. We should be taking you into protective custody.”

“_No_.” Will’s refusal shot from his lips, dripping with venom.

“Will—”

“Absolutely _not_.”

“Doctor Lecter, please help me talk some sense into him,” Jack nearly begged.

The glare that Will shot him, daring him to take Jack’s side, made Hannibal raise his hands in the air. “Perhaps we should table the discussion until we are feeling less reactionary; as it stands, we do have an appointment, and I would hate to keep Doctor Chilton waiting.” Grudgingly accepting his proposition, Will and Jack gathered their belongings and joined Hannibal by the door. “I have an appointment in the afternoon and will have to leave directly from the hospital, so I will have to drive separately, I’m afraid,” he continued. “Will, would you accompany me?”

Will agreed with an alacrity that pleased Hannibal, though his reserve returned as soon as the Bentley came into sight. More eager to escape Jack than to associate with Hannibal, then. This did not concern him, however. Their acquaintance thus far had been lamentably short, and despite some stimulating conversation in his office the previous evening, Hannibal felt certain that Will exercised caution regarding those he allowed into his circle of trust. It would take time.

Hannibal, however, had elevated patience to an art-form.

“Please don’t talk to me about protective custody,” Will said, inserting the buckle on his seatbelt with a click.

Hannibal turned in his seat to face him. Will’s body sat rigid and erect, hands in his lap as though afraid to touch anything, gaze directed fixedly out the windshield and refusing to look in his direction, though Hannibal’s scrutiny would not escape his notice in this close proximity. A few droplets of rain splattered on the windshield. Dark clouds gathered overhead; there would be quite the storm. “Shall I turn on the seat warmer for you?”

This startled Will into glancing at him, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as he then stared at the numerous buttons on the dash. “That would be great, thank you. I guess I should have figured a car like this would have them.”

“Yours does not?” Hannibal asked, not hiding the amusement in his voice.

“No, but it has cruise control, which more than makes up for it.” This little joke delivered with a pained smile. 

The radio had switched on in concert with the engine, and Hannibal raised the volume a little when it became apparent that Will had no intention of speaking. As they neared their destination, and when Delius’ Aquarelles finished, a soothing voice announced the next piece.

The tinkling of the piano keys swirled over them like the tide washing in, and a curious noise escaped Will’s mouth. Will must have realized he’d been heard, for he cleared his throat and explained, “It’s nice.”

“Ravel. _Une Barque sur l’Ocean_,” Hannibal repeated the piece’s title, in case Will hadn’t caught it. “A boat on the water.”

Will’s fingers drummed on his knee. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Do you speak French?”

“A version of it,” Will said. He fell silent, but his lips were parted, a tension in his neck indicating his intention to speak. A minute or so later, he did. “Sometimes... at night I leave the lights on in my little house, and walk across the flat fields. When I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat on the sea.”

Hannibal glanced in his direction. This whimsical disclosure felt unexpectedly intimate, given the business-like nature of their current association. It delighted him. “A lonely image.”

“A safe one,” Will corrected. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “and comforting in its solitude.”

“Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god,” Hannibal quoted. “Aristotle.” 

This comment startled a laugh from Will: the gleaming white of his teeth peeked out from under his rosy lips, his eyes crinkled attractively in the corners, and his cheeks plumped upward with the shape of his smile. Hannibal realized this was the first time the man had laughed in his presence, and he closed his eyes to memorize the musical sound.

It would forever echo down the hallway outside Will’s room in Hannibal’s memory palace.

Another silence settled between them. Hannibal broke it only once he’d savored it to satisfaction, knowing his question would not delight the way the quotation had. 

“You will feel safe there, alone?” At Will’s groan, Hannibal raised a placating hand, eyes still on the road. “I will not press the subject of Jack’s suggestion of protective custody; I merely wanted to ascertain that you were certain in your chosen course.” A pause. “Would you satisfy a curiosity for me?” Hannibal slowed to a stop at a red light, flicked on his turn signal. The entrance to the BSCHI loomed ahead. He licked his lips, took the silence that followed his question as assent. “Jack mentioned the inclusion of a notebook in the package.”

“Yeah,” Will sighed. “Along with a photocopy of a letter Stammets mailed me a while ago.”

His fingers tightened marginally on the wheel as he eased the car to a stop in the nearest open space. “Nothing of a specifically threatening nature?”

“Mm.”

“Jack’s concern is understandable, regardless,” he added, and would have ventured to say more, but a soft thud drew his attention; Will had leaned toward the door to rest his head against the window. Silhouetted against the rainfall, pale skin glowing in the hazy grey of the afternoon light and blue eyes taking on its icy hue, Will became an angel; one of Charles Le Brun’s from The Fall of the Rebel Angels, all shadow and light and suffering. “What was in the notebook?”

“Nothing really. ‘I know who you are.’ Filled the whole thing up with it.”

“And who are you?” Hannibal asked, staring outright, itching for his pencils that he might draw the vision before him.

“Probably not who they think,” Will said, eyes closing tightly for a moment before he reached for the door handle to let himself out of the car.

Jack had arrived first; he leaned against his vehicle, hat and trench coat dripping with rain, phone pressed to his ear, and lips drawn in a firm line. He waved Hannibal and Will ahead, motioning to his phone. Just as well. Will dashed ahead to the shelter provided over the stone steps; Hannibal pulled out his umbrella and followed a short distance behind.

A hitch in Will’s step as he started up the stairs toward the front door prompted a questioning look from Hannibal. “Always get nervous going into these kinds of places,” Will explained.

“Nervous?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That they might not let me out again.”

“While that might suit Doctor Chilton well enough,” Will’s huff of surprised laughter, for the second time today, pleased him, “Jack and I would not leave you behind.” He pressed forward on the door, and motioned for Will to pass him. The dog smell—_wet _dog smell, now—made Hannibal’s nose twitch.

The same orderly as before greeted them. M. Brown.

“FBI—we have a meeting with Doctor Chilton,” said Will, coming to a stop before him.

Mr. Brown’s dark, rodent-like eyes flitted back and forth between Hannibal and Will before landing on Hannibal. “I’ll need to see some identification.”

Will fumbled around in his pocket before producing his FBI’s consultant badge. “Agent Jack Crawford is just outside; we’re consulting. I’m Will Graham—”

“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Graham,” the young man drawled, no lisp in evidence this time. Will’s eyes snapped up and body came to attention to take in the whole of the orderly’s face. “If I may have your name, sir.” Mr. Brown directed this at Hannibal, appearing unaffected by Will’s scrutiny.

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he supplied, shedding his coat nonchalantly as he spoke, holding forth his own badge for inspection.

“I’ll get you both checked in,” said Matthew, writing in his ledger and then reaching for the visitor passes. “Are you ready?”

Will and Hannibal glanced at the door. Jack stood outside by the front door now, sheltering from the rain, but paced back and forth, still on the phone. “Yes,” Hannibal decided.

Frederick Chilton did not make them wait outside his office this time. He waved Mr. Brown off to assist with transferring Gideon to the interview room. “I have another meeting in an hour. How long do you think you’ll need?” He received no answer—only a baleful glare from Will and an incredulous brow-raise from Hannibal. “I would much rather be present for the entirety of the interview,” he back-pedaled, “but unfortunately this was a pre-existing appointment and could not be rescheduled. If you need more time than I can give, I’ll have another staff-member on hand.”

“You need not worry on our account, Doctor Chilton—" Hannibal started.

“Frederick, please.”

“Frederick, then. It will be only Will and myself in the interview room with him. While a familiar face may be calming, you will agree that he may feel freer to express himself when not around someone upon whom subsequent care at this facility will depend.”

Dr. Chilton’s mouth popped open. He appeared unsure of whether or not to take offense. “We’re filming the interview, of course,” he settled on eventually. “I suppose I can always refer to that.”

Hannibal inclined his head in agreement.

By the time they returned to the main hallway, Jack had just finished signing in, and joined their procession to the interview room. It appeared much like an interrogation room would, though more sterile than the ones he had been subjected to in Italy; a square table centered inside, with thick metallic loops on one side through which the patients’ manacles would be secured. Two chairs—Frederick assured them that another would be on the way in a moment—rickety things, low-backed and lacking cushions. A two-way mirror behind the interviewer’s side of the table. Perhaps its one concession to hospitality was the high, rectangular window—barred, of course—to the interviewer’s left. Gideon sat, cuffed to the table, drumming his fingers idly against it.

“There he is. The Chesapeake Ripper,” Frederick said of Gideon before leading Hannibal, Will, and Jack into the observation room. Mr. Brown loitered inside against one of the walls, watching Gideon through the glass. Chilton fiddled with the control panel, looking officious about it, though Hannibal noted that he tried to return everything to its original settings before stepping away. “I have Matthew do the A/V work,” he said, gesturing for Jack to take a seat in front of the glass. “He has a hand for electronics.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Brown, walking to the control panel and making a few corrections to the settings that Chilton had been playing with. 

“Shall we?” Hannibal asked Will, who had not stepped into the observation room at all. Too small a space, with too many people, perhaps?

Will nodded tersely and led the way to the interview suite.

Gideon, of average height and stocky build, kept himself rather neat and carried himself with poise. Throughout the general tedium of the interview, he also showed a flair for the dramatic that would have kept Hannibal entertained regardless of his personal stake in the progress of their conversation. The idea that Chilton should find Gideon a suitable mark on whom to pin the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper, however, offended, regardless of the man’s charm.

Will had made it clear on numerous occasions that he meant to be a silent observer in the room with them. But there were a handful of moments, always preceded by him coming to his feet and beginning to pace around the room, in which he gently took the reins from Hannibal so that he might ask a question himself.

“What were you hoping to accomplish by killing Elizabeth Shell?” Hannibal asked.

“The effect I was hoping for—” Gideon answered, rolling his eyes—“was her _death_.”

Will stood, settled his hands on the back of his chair before moving to the back wall to lean against the mirror.

“Elevated to my art,” Gideon tacked on, carefulling enunciating the final ‘t’, eyes following Will’s movements.

“Do you have a favorite?” Will asked, and Hannibal turned in his seat just enough to be able to see him, arms crossed over the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, collar slightly askew, curls dishevelled from running his hands through them.

“A favorite.” Gideon repeated, not following.

“Work of art. Yours, or someone else’s,” came the clarification.

“I assume you are familiar with my _portfolio_, or you wouldn’t be asking,” Gideon hedged. The question had clearly caught him off-guard. “If you’re fond of social commentary, the woman—what _was _her name?—whose phone I put in place of her heart would be a good choice.”

_Ah, yes_. Periodically the phone would vibrate in her chest cavity, mimicking the beating of the heart. Hannibal delighted in the humor of it, though he felt certain the physicians completing the autopsy must have had quite a scare when her chest wall moved the first time. _A good choice_, Hannibal agreed, though he would hesitate to call it his favorite—the question required further introspection.

Briefly he wondered how Will would answer. Which tableau he would call _his_ favorite, from the Chesapeake Ripper’s—the _actual_ Ripper’s—portfolio. He had made some compelling works as Il Mostro as well, in Florence all those years ago; on reflection, however, they borrowed a touch heavily from the masterworks. A young artist, still struggling to find his style. Hannibal would pick from the Ripper’s repertoire. Will, if given the choice, would too, Hannibal felt certain.

“I asked about _your_ favorite,” Will pressed, leaning forward slightly as though he could press in physically as well. Gideon made a vague gesture in answer. “Well, why the Wound Man?”

“Why the Wound Man _what_?” Exasperation colored his voice.

It must be a deliberate choice to speak in fragments; he had not adopted the pattern from anyone else in their company today, certainly, and this way of expressing himself had a marked effect on their interviewee.

“You chose to recreate a previous scene. Why did you choose the Wound Man?”

“It seemed appropriate, given that this is a _hospital_,” Gideon looked directly at the center of the mirror, as though he could see through to the other side. “If in name only. Precious little healing to be done in Doctor Chilton’s care.”

Will shuffled his feet, then resumed his position sitting beside Hannibal, who moved on to the next pre-selected question. It seemed Will’s interjections tended less to discrediting Gideon’s claims, and more to understanding him and the depth of his delusion. This last line of questioning, however, turned the tide of the interview. Before, Gideon had remained more or less cool, inscrutable. Unaffected.

After, Gideon grew increasingly agitated and defensive; Will’s little asides, usually something of a jump from the topic at hand, continued to exacerbate his frustration, until at last, almost an hour into their conversation, he exploded. “I was caught red-handed. Literally. No mystery as to who done it. _I_ did. I don’t need to convince you I’m the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed, sitting back in his chair. “There is no need for that.”

The three of them were silent, then, and the little pause ended when a knock from the other side of the mirror cued them to wrap things up.

“Thank you for your time today, Doctor Gideon,” Hannibal unlaced his hands and raised them from his lap to the table. He tapped his fingers against the smooth metal, then looked to Will. They stood as one, and the door opened to admit Matthew Brown, in addition to two other staff members who had come to return Gideon to his cell.

“I would say it’s been a pleasure,” Abel Gideon said, coming to his feet and holding his hands aloft so the guard could release his cuffs from the table. “But I’m an honest man.”

“You know, now that you say that, Doctor Gideon,” Will said, studying him intently. Gideon seemed surprised but pleased at the eye contact, and his lips quirked upwards as he gestured for Will to go on. “If I had to name a—a favorite from all your works, it would be the Thanksgiving Dinner scene. Very passionate. Honest.”

Hannibal’s back stiffened until he could remind himself that Will only attributed two murder scenes to Gideon, and one had been a derivative work; a pale imitation of Hannibal’s original. 

The curious tilt to Gideon’s head righted slowly as he processed Will’s words. The guard tugged on his manacles, and though Gideon started for the door, he gave Will a pained smile over his shoulder. His eyes had a gleam in them, however, that Hannibal had yet to see in the short duration of their acquaintance.

Jack barreled into the room once the inmate had been taken away, Matthew Brown leaning against the mirror, waiting to take them back to the front. “What the hell was that, Will?” he demanded.

Will crossed his arms stubbornly; Hannibal sensed another argument and decided to intervene. “Abel Gideon is a man confused about his identity; a very painful state of affairs,” he said, stepping slightly forward so that his body came between Jack and Will. “Will’s words were a gift. A beacon; something to guide him back to himself.” He looked to Will for confirmation, to see the man’s eyes rounded; whether due to being taken off-guard by Hannibal interceding in support, or at the accuracy of Hannibal’s insight, he could not say.

Jack appeared somewhat mollified at this. He turned to the orderly. “When can you have a copy of the interview for us?” he asked.

“I can make them for you now, if you’re willing to wait fifteen minutes.” Mr. Brown locked the interview suite after they exited, then led them back toward the front lobby, where he left them in the care of another member of the staff.

Hannibal checked his watch. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accompany you as you wait,” he said. “I have a rather long commute ahead of me.”

“You’ll be riding with me, then, Will,” Jack informed him. “And we can discuss that protective detail.”

Will didn’t answer, but the set of his jaw told Hannibal everything he needed to know. He would continue to decline. Will had a tendency to capitulate to Jack’s persistence, however; by the end of the drive back to Quantico, in early rush hour traffic no less, Jack may yet wear him down.

While Hannibal regretted his early exit for the chance it robbed him of pursuing the subject of their celebratory dinner after closing the case, this feeling was short-lived. He had other concerns to attend to. Ones that now consumed his entire focus.

The FBI had, from the outset, not believed in Gideon’s plagiarism; this had a tempering effect on Hannibal’s ire. The masses, however… granted, the lowest common denominator of society would accept any theory floated by the more reputable presses, and he could not alter that.

Those presses, however, had received their information from _somewhere_; Freddie Lounds had peddled the frankly ridiculous assertion that Gideon and the Ripper were one and the same, as though it were the gospel truth. In combination with her slights against Will Graham, it seemed as though she had lost all journalistic integrity.

Hannibal would re-educate her.

Will had been correct to dread the dropping of the other shoe.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have realized, over the course of writing this, that Hannibal S1 is really just a forced proximity trope. Ain't no way they would have ended up socializing, had it not been for the fact that Jack basically locked them in a closet together.  
Oh geez, am I gonna have to write a blanketfic scene into this story...?
> 
> On a business-related note, I have through chapter 8 written now. After re-reading chapter 7, though, it needs a little love. Doesn't have the Pa-POW! that it needs. **Would you lovelies be upset if I pushed production back on it a week or so?** Normally, I think I pop those changes out quickly enough to be on time with posting, but as I'm also doing NaNoWriMo (42,008 words so far, with another 1500 planned for today! Did you know I'm writing a novel? Deets on my author page), I think it's gonna take me a little longer to push it out.
> 
> ** ETA: I am now (11/26) in the editing stages for the re-write of chapter 7. It's a much better chapter than it used to be, but all the re-writing and now the editing is going to push back posting for a week. So please keep an eye out for chapter 7 on 12/5! **


	7. Unwanted Advances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, and thank you for your patience!  
TW: Mention of violence to animals
> 
> Approximately a 28-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Seven

Unwanted Advances.

-+-

Will stayed behind at Quantico for a few hours to pound out his report, feeling the imminence of his return to freedom the moment he clicked ‘print’. He and Jack got along well enough, he supposed, but nothing good would come out of getting too close.

The repetitive machine hum and rhythmic pulses of the office printer soothed him, and he stood there, transfixed, almost hypnotized. He nearly jumped out of his skin then, when a firm hand clapped onto his forearm, jarring him from his trance. 

For a moment, the hand belonged to Matthew Brown, stopping him again in the lobby of the hospital. But then Will’s vision cleared, and Beverly stood before him, brows scrunched up in concern, head tilted in curiosity. “You okay?” she asked, letting go of his arm. “I knocked and called your name from the door, but you were completely zoned out.”

“Sorry, uh—” he squeezed his eyes closed, hard, and when they opened again, Beverly remained Beverly. “Just tired, I guess.”

She hummed, stepping back to give him some space. “Finished processing your little gift,” she said. “Was just going to head down. Want to come with me to pick it up?”

He blinked. “You’re releasing it?”

“We’ve got everything off it that there is to get, and we have it photographed,” she said. “It’s fine for you to take it.”

“What are the odds they’ll figure out who left it, right?” he said, casting his eyes down to his shoes.

“Hey,” she said, voice softer this time. Coaxing. “Are you worried? Jack said you declined the protective detail. Adamantly.”

He sighed, shrugged. “Not _worried_.” He gestured to the printer. “Do you have a second? I have to take this report to Jack before we go.” She nodded as she walked around the desk to flop into the chair behind it, letting it swivel around before stopping it with a booted foot on the floor. 

“What was it like working a case again?” she asked after a moment. “Take you back?”

The printer released the last page of his report and he pulled the stack from the tray before evening the edges. The stapler echoed like a shotgun blast in the quiet of the room. “It’s been a few years,” he said. “Felt rusty.”

“A few?” she asked, coming to her feet, grabbing his coat from her chair for him.

“Mm. ‘Least four.”

The way her brows ticked up telegraphed her surprise. “That’s you after four years?” She shook her head. “I would’ve paid to see you in top form, then, boy wonder.” They closed the door after them. Concern colored her voice when she added, “it wasn’t too much for you, after Stammets?”

The people that usually asked those kinds of questions never really cared about the response. But she lacked that officiousness. Her worry felt refreshing, it endeared her to him. “He treated me like a houseguest,” he reassured her. “I was never privy to his violence.”

“But you knew about it,” she pressed.

“I did,” he answered quietly, thinking of the soft, velvety texture of the mushrooms when he first encountered them that day in summer. Of the conversations he and Eldon had, later into his stay, after Will had figured out what exactly Eldon had planned. “It’s surprisingly easy to compartmentalize.”

This made her laugh, in that way that people did when they felt a little called out. She’d seen her fair share of the bad shit—compartmentalizing probably came just as naturally to her too.

They had reached Jack’s office; the lights were off inside. Will shrugged and passed the folder containing his report through the slot in the mailbox next to it, and felt the weight on his shoulders dissolve. With this finished, only Stammets’ trial stood between him and a quiet life with his dogs.

Beverly led him to the lab, gossiping about some of the forensic techs that had lost a piece of evidence from the Gideon scene, sprinkling her conversation with her charming humor and infectious laughter. By the time they reached their destination, Will had an open smile on his face to match hers.

“Will,” Price said, looking up from whatever he was studying with a headlamp and magnifying glass, that distorted his eye to the size of a teacup saucer. Zeller didn’t stop working; his shoulders stiffened, though. 

“Bring him down to collect his valentines?” Price asked. At last, Zeller looked up, face contorted by an exaggerated frown, one dripping with judgement.

Beverly scooted around Zeller’s worktable to one of the desks in the adjoining office. Will spotted the package, re-wrapped in its brown paper, sitting on top of the desk.

“_Valentines_,” he protested, adjusting his glasses. 

One hand to his chest, the other raised dramatically before him, Price paraphrased, “I’ll be waiting for you to reach back.” 

That made the second time today that someone quoted that line from Stammets’ letter at him. Will stuck his hand into his pocket, fondling the little note burning a hole into its lining. One that Matthew Brown had given him not hours ago.

After handing off a CD to Jack, tidily printed with the date and the title, “Gideon Interview”, Brown had turned to Will. “Can I have a moment before you go, Mr. Graham?” The lisp once more strongly in evidence.

Will glanced at Jack, who nodded his permission, and followed Brown off to the side of the lobby furthest away from the others in the room. Brown still wore a smile, but a new tension stiffened the upward curve; like a mask, the lips grinned, but the eyes bore into him, hard and penetrative, appraising.

Matthew Brown said nothing for a moment, though something in his demeanor appeared intensely satisfied. Enjoying the time he had been given, and making best use of it by staring. _Ah_, thought Will, the pieces coming together. He focused on the man’s chin, dug his hands into his pockets and clenched them into tight fists. And waited.

“Eldon Stammets asked me to deliver a message to you, if you want to hear it,” Brown said, speech free of impediments, voice low and private, though he affected a casual stance with hands tucked into his pockets.

Will’s gaze had drifted to Brown’s ear, then his shoulder. He shuffled his feet. _Some sort of test_? “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” he hedged.

“Nobody has to know,” Brown answered.

Will remained tight-lipped, not saying ‘no’ but not walking away either. Despite his refusal to play whatever game Matthew Brown had in mind, his curiosity about what Eldon had to say held him prisoner, trapped in place.

“Give it some thought. Here,” said Brown, drawing a slip of paper from his pocket, and passing it to Will. When Will wouldn’t take it, he added, “My number. Text me for whatever you decide.”

“Why would I text you just to tell you no?” Will asked, reaching hesitantly forward to take it. A tell, he realized, once his fingers touched the paper. Giving away his desire to know.

“You don’t _have_ to.” Matthew Brown’s smile transformed into a cunning thing—one that reached his eyes this time. “But then I’d have your number.”

Will started, let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not interested in—”

“Like I said, give it some thought. I just want you to know where to—” he leaned in a little, “_reach me_.” 

An echo of Stammets’ letter. Those same words from Price’s mouth, even in jest, sat heavily in his stomach. Price was shaking his head now, done laughing at his recitation. “I hear he won’t say more than two words at a time in interviews. Wouldn’t think to look at him that he had any poetry in those old bones, but I guess you brought it out in him, huh?”

Beverly laughed awkwardly as she dropped the box into Will’s hands. “If death threats read like love letters to you, Price, no wonder you’re still single.” The rebuke hit its mark; Price’s smile dropped at once. His levity must have felt inappropriate to her, considering the conversation she’d just had with Will. 

How odd to have a champion.

“Thanks,” Will said, no longer smiling as he looked down at the box. “Not sure what I’m gonna do with this.”

“You can’t magic the perpetrator out of it?” she teased.

“My skills don’t extend that far,” he answered. Zeller grunted, got back to work. This interested Will; Zeller had been friendly, kind, when he’d worked the Stammets case. His attitude toward Will had changed only recently, when they’d met again at the hospital, the night nurse’s corpse between them.

Probably Will had rubbed him wrong at the crime scene. He tended to do that when working; it was part of the reason why he had so few friends on the Force back then. In Zeller’s eyes, Will might also present some sort of threat. _Competition_. But their roles were very different. Maybe he just hadn’t liked being contradicted.

“You planning on profiling for us again anytime soon?” This, from Beverly.

“_Oh_,” Price gushed. “That could be fun.”

He shook his head. “It’d take a miracle.”

“What kind? We’ll see if we can whip one up for you,” Beverly said, eyes bright with mirth. He shook his head again, absorbing her humor, projecting it with his matching smile.

“You’re done?” Price asked, disappointed. Then, as though suddenly inspired, “What if the Ripper finally resurfaces?”

Suddenly Will’s mouth felt parched, all of the moisture travelling through him to force its way out from his palms. Not ‘if’. When. The Ripper _would_ resurface, he would put money on it. A man like him wouldn’t take that kind of insult lying down. Just the way Will had shuddered with disgust and excitement, reading the promise in Eldon’s letter, he felt torn in two about this prospect as well.

He couldn’t help his curiosity. But satisfying it meant risking his sanity, he felt sure.

“Maybe,” he hedged. “Maybe for the Ripper.”

“I’m afraid you’re not convincing me, Mr. Graham.” 

A manila folder slid across the metallic table-top toward him, the well-worn edges of several sheets of paper protruding from its open side. Will’s fingers spread wide on his thighs, but he made no move to reach for the folder. He looked up, but couldn’t find the source of the voice, not in this dark room, lit only by a single desk lamp which spot-lit the file.

“Why don’t you just take a look,” the voice urged him, seeping out of the darkness that surrounded him, pressing in on him from all sides. 

Will reached tentatively forward, flicked the file open. Photographs, documents, all loose inside. He pulled the photograph on top of the stack marginally closer to him with the pad of one finger, recognized the image immediately. 

_Oh_. 

He knew this file. Knew its contents backwards and forwards. He didn’t need another look. 

“Mr. Graham, why don’t you tell me what you _see_.”

He swallowed convulsively around the knot that had tightened in his throat. Hesitantly, he looked up to peer into the darkness, hoping to latch onto some shadowed shape. If he could just make contact, if he could just _see_, he would know what needed to be said to get him out of this. 

But he saw nothing. 

“A family meal gone wrong,” he tried. 

A wry chuckle answered this comment. “I suppose that’s not entirely incorrect.” A pale, thick-fingered hand reached out of the darkness and tapped the photograph once before disappearing back into the dark. “Why did you kill them, Mr. Graham?”

Something about that indolent speech pattern sparked recognition in him. Abel Gideon. This was Abel Gideon’s voice. “_I _didn’t kill them,” Will answered. “I don’t have a family.” _That’s not right,_ Will thought, puzzled. _That’s not what I wanted to say._

“Certainly not _anymore_,” came Gideon’s chuckling reply. “You are faced with the murder of your family and yet you feel nothing. You even claim not to know them.”

_I do feel_, he wanted to protest, though the words remained locked in his mouth. He felt _justified_. His wife, that cheating bitch, and the wastrels of her kin had it coming to them. Their deaths were _right, _even a little artful, slumped over the table, their coagulated blood like splatters of cranberry sauce. 

_That’s not right_. This smugness didn’t sit right. This was _not_ his wife. He couldn’t have done this: he needed no further proof than the revulsion that boiled over inside of him when he looked at the lower corner of the picture: a back paw and shaggy tail weltering in a pool of blood.

At last, his lips found the power to obey him. “I didn’t do this. You did. This is _your_ family, Doctor Gideon, and you’re the one who killed them.”

“You, me,” Gideon waved a flippant hand as he came into the light. The shadows playing on his face as he spoke made him ghostly, gaunt. A hungry creature. “What’s the difference?”

Will frowned, sliding a little further back in his chair. How to reason with someone so clearly _beyond_ reason? “But there is a difference,” he insisted, knowing the fruitlessness of this struggle, and helpless but to throw himself into it. “Abel Gideon committed these murders. _You’re_ Abel Gideon. I’m not.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget. I’m Abel Gideon, and you’re the wondrous Will _Graham_,” Gideon said, drawing out his last name, giving it weight, humming through the ‘m’ at the end. His hands settled on the back of Will’s chair and yanked it backward, quickly enough for a little whiplash. “The catcher of killers.” The strident pop at the start of ‘catch’ gritted against Will’s ear.

Will tumbled out of his seat, coming to his feet. The chains connecting the manacles around his wrists rattled, an eerie sound in the otherwise quiet room. He eyed Gideon, who wasted away before his eyes: face devoid of color, cheeks hollowing out more and more with each second that progressed. 

So frail was he that the force he used in grabbing Will by the collar of his shirt and shoving him at the wall seemed beyond supernatural. He pushed Will against the two-way mirror, their bodies coming flush together, his fingers, skeletal things now, white as bone, keeping Will in place by his hair. 

Will sucked in a breath, tried to worm his hands between his body and the wall, looking for a little leverage to push back against Gideon so he could break away. _Not that there’s anywhere to go._ “If I’m Will Graham,” he ground out, hoping his words would distract the man from the work of his hands, “then I couldn’t have done it, now could I?”

“But of course you could,” Gideon said, hot breath puffing against Will’s neck, ribbons of deep grey smoke, curling against his flesh. “_Because_ you’re Will Graham.” 

Will’s eyes widened, pinned to Gideon’s reflection in the mirror. No longer a man, his flesh had rotted, falling off in great clumps, what remained clinging to bone from strands of rent skin. His breath moved inside of him, noxious and grey, illuminated from within, a living thing, more essentially him than the bones and blood. 

He yanked back on Will’s hair, so far that Will’s body bowed, the back of his head started to sink inside the crumbling remains of Gideon’s shoulder. “You’re Will Graham. And Will Graham can be anyone at all, now can’t he?”

Will sucked in a breath and the curling grey smoke pulsing from inside Gideon invaded him, flooding his lungs. He scrabbled at his throat, mouth popping open like a landed fish, gasping for air, only to take in more of that noxious smoke. 

He crumpled forward and— 

The impact of Will’s head crashing into the two-way mirror—the kitchen cabinet—startled Will out of the dream. Disoriented, he wobbled on his feet, clutched onto the kitchen counter for balance. “Sleepwalking?” he gasped, head spinning. When had he gone to sleep?

When had he gotten home?

He filtered through his memories, but he couldn’t even put his finger on the moment he’d left the lab. Beverly had handed him the package—_where is it?— _and Price had tried to entice him to keep working together... but after that, nothing. A low moan forced its way out of his mouth. His head _pounded_.

Winston’s nose poked against the back of his leg, checking to see if he was alright, and all Will could think was _get this mutt off of me_. 

If the dream and the sleep-walking hadn’t alerted him that something was wrong, the sudden impulse to kick Winston away would have been more than enough. He dug his hands into his hair, grabbed a handful close to the root and tugged. Palms pressed against his brow bone, his fingers kneaded at his scalp.

Gideon had killed the dog, along with his wife and her family.

He ripped his nails down the skin of his face, wishing he could tear it off. 

_This isn’t right. _

A shower. A shower would fix things.

A hot one, about as hot as he could stand it. Needed it to wash Gideon off of him. He’d let himself get too far into Gideon’s head as he wrote out his report. Twelve pages. He’d written _twelve pages_ about the man. Probably about ten too many, so far as his sanity was concerned.

The sound of a text message stopped him, sweat-dampened t-shirt halfway over his head. He’d changed at some point, he noted absently. This wasn’t the shirt he’d started the day in.

“Better not be Jack,” he grumbled**. **He pulled the shirt the rest of the way off and walked over to his phone, sitting on the counter by the back door. The crumpled jersey still in hand, he peered at the notification on the screen. 

Not Jack.

[Do you have next Friday night available for our little celebration?]

Will frowned. Maybe one more loose end to tie up before he could resume his peaceful, solitary life. _With my dogs_, he amended, skin itching all over, begging for that shower. 

He considered several answers. How best to convey that he had no intention of participating and that it was rather rude to assume he would even want to, after his clear lack of enthusiasm the last time?

[_I think my initial evasion was fairly clear, Dr. Lecter_], he wrote. [_Please enjoy yourselves without me_. _I know I will._] 

As soon as he sent it, the wrongness of the words descended on him. Dr. Lecter had been kind and a fairly interesting conversational partner. Aside from his occasional prodding at Will’s psyche, and his rather frequent high-handedness, he wasn’t too bad. He didn’t deserve this treatment. This refusal, in words that weren’t Will’s own.

[_Jack and Alana and I were greatly looking forward to sharing a meal with you_], came the near-immediate reply. Just when Will thought he would have to either defend his decision or apologize, or, more realistically, both, another text message arrived. [_I will convey your regrets to them. I do hope you’ll be of a different mind when I ask you next. I would love to have you at my table._]

[_A different mind_], Will wrote, [_Hopefully my own_]. He sent the message, and stared at his screen for a good minute. Dr. Lecter texted fairly quickly, contrary to what one might expect from his appearance, so when no new messages were forthcoming, he dropped his wet shirt on the floor and almost ran up the stairs.

Knob turned all the way to hot, the bathroom steamed up completely within a handful of minutes. His reflection disappeared from the mirror and every time he breathed in, the humid air bogged up his lungs. He stripped out of the rest of his clothes and took a step into the shower, eyes shut and body clenched with tension.

“Ah!” A low little yelp as the spray nearly scalded his skin. He sucked in a deep breath, squeezed his eyes closed, and put his head under the nozzle. Layer by layer, he felt Gideon peel away from him to swirl down the drain with dead skin cells and soap bubbles. It took the better part of an hour before the thoughts in his head felt as though they came from him rather than Gideon. 

Himself once more, he dried off, dressed, then petted and kissed and cuddled the dogs in front of the fire he’d set in the living room. Fonda, the Bernese Mountain Dog, draped herself over him like a blanket, and the rest of the mutts proceeded to puppy pile on him, heedless of the hard floor and how it bothered his back.

Honestly, he didn’t mind it now, though he would in the morning. The Gideon case behind him, Jack Crawford now (for the most part) out of his life, and Stammets only existing in his periphery… for the first time in a while, he felt at peace.

The warmth of the dogs’ bodies and the fire pulled him into a light snooze before long. 

At some point during the night, he moved to his bed. Waking there after falling asleep with the dogs, though, disoriented him. A lot of that going on, recently. 

Bleary-eyed, he registered the sound that had roused him. Again, his phone. Ringing, ringing. He got to his feet and stumbled over to the other side of the bed, where his phone vibrated steadily away, buzzing itself closer and closer to the edge of the nightstand.

“Graham,” he answered, only then looking at his alarm clock. _Three o’clock_, he groaned to himself, his free hand already stripping the fitted sheet from the mattress. He’d been sweating up a storm and forgot to put a towel down before going to bed; if he didn’t change the sheets now, they’d stink up the whole house.

“I’ve called you three times now, Graham.” Jack’s voice.

“It’s barely three o’clock, Jack,” he explained as patiently as he could manage. “I was sleeping.”

“Well, wake up. I’ve got a car on its way to pick you up. We have a crime scene.”

“I said I’d consult on the _Gideon_ case, and I turned my report in for that to you yesterday.”

“I read it. Excellent report, you went above and beyond. You _also _told the team that you’d consult for me if the Ripper finally decided to show up.”

“What I _said _was—” he paused, finally catching up with Jack’s little speech. “The Ripper?”

“Seems like it might be,” Jack grunted. “Make sure you’re ready when your ride gets there.”

“I could just leave now.”

“You don’t have sirens.” With that, he disconnected the call.

Will looked helplessly around the room, at the curious expressions on his dogs’ faces. How long would this take? If the crime scene belonged to the Ripper, then this could take all night. Better let the dogs out now, so they could take care of business outside while he addressed things inside.

He decided at the last minute to take a quick shower and wash off the scent of stale sweat that had followed him despite changing his clothes. By the time he finished tying the laces on his boots, a chorus of friendly barking told him his ride had arrived. 

With a sharp whistle, he called the dogs back into the house, wiping paws at Olympic-level speeds before sprinting to the locked gate and hopping into the squad car waiting on the other side. The drive from Wolf Trap to downtown DC passed quickly enough that he wondered if he’d lost time again, only to realize that he’d fallen asleep for the latter half of the ride. 

Jack opened his car door for him and guided him quickly into the hotel. The elevator door opened on the eleventh floor; heads peeked out of doorways, trying to catch a glimpse of the commotion as the police ushered Jack and Will behind the line.

“You alright?” Jack asked, voice brusque. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m, uh, fighting a cold.”

Beverly, Price, and Zeller had already made themselves comfortable in the room collecting evidence. Jack passed them all silently and pushed Will into the bathroom.

A body in the bathtub. Surgical incisions. Probably, if they were assuming that this was a Ripper scene, organ removal.

But the Ripper had never been here. Will could see that at a glance.

His feet carried him to the toilet seat, where he sat and stared. He could see it. Truly, _see _it. The murderer, tumbling into the bathtub with the victim—a Mr. Murray, Jack had said— on top of him. The life fading from Mr. Murray’s eyes as he grew still. The feeling of horrible realization that something had happened which wasn’t meant to. The feel of flesh giving way under a scalpel, how it oozed around his hand as he reached inside the chest cavity to grip the heart.

His trembling hand, squeezing the still muscle, hoping to kick it into action, to start pumping the blood anew.

This wasn’t what he _meant_—_this isn’t what I wanted, he—_

Will sucked in a deep breath, opening his eyes. He’d gotten up at some point, now stood looking down into the tub, the phantom sensation of a hand gripping him around the ankle the only thing keeping him from diving in there to resume attempts at resuscitation. Once the grip on his leg disappeared, leaving a prickling on his skin, he cast a self-conscious look over his shoulder to find that, yes, all eyes _were_ on him, and then moved to perch against the sink.

“What do you see, Will?” Jack asked.

He said nothing.

“It’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Zeller announced from the other room. Asserting himself.

“It’s not the Ripper.”

“There are twenty-two signature components of the Ripper’s kills here. It’s the Ripper.”

Will bent over to push the door closed so he could speak to Jack without interruption.

“Are you sure?” Jack asked.

Will studied the man’s face. The tired lines around his mouth, the grim determination glittering in his eyes, the hopeful tilt forward in his posture. Here stood a man who would see shadows of the Ripper everywhere, now that the spectre had been raised from the dead, so to speak, by Gideon’s actions. He could understand the bone-deep fear that this kind of bogeyman would spark, especially in the hearts of those who were so dead-set on catching him.

But he didn’t want to get woken up at 3 in the morning night after night, on false alarms as outrageously off the mark as this one.

“Do you see the Ripper when you look at this man, Jack?” he asked, in lieu of a direct answer.

Jack hedged. “Like Zeller said, twenty-two components—”

“Not what I asked,” Will cut him off, but his tone carried a patience he didn’t feel, to soften the slight.

Whole body turning toward the tub, Jack studied the scene. “It’s not him,” he sighed. “He fancies himself an artist, right?”

From behind the door, Zeller’s grumble of, “maybe he just didn’t have time to stage things the way he wanted,” rang loud and clear in the small bathroom.

Will shook his head.

Jack opened the door, followed Will out silently through the hotel room and back into the hallway. “Officer Lipmann will drive you back,” he said, motioning to one of the uniforms idling by the elevator.

“Hold on a second, Jack,” Will said, his tongue rebelling even as he spoke the words. He hated doing this, but it needed to be done. “What I said _to the team_ was ‘maybe’ I’d consult if the Ripper reappeared.”

“Yes, and thank you for coming,” Jack said. Misunderstanding, probably on purpose, judging from the steely glint in his eye.

“I’m not working this case, Jack.” The ‘_it’s not worth my time’_ went unsaid between them. 

“I’ll call Alana Bloom,” he conceded, after staring Will down as though the power of his glare alone could change his mind. 

Will found he didn’t have the energy to continue the conversation. The fatigue from the day before had yet to leave him, and tonight’s killer still echoed in his head. He sighed, giving up for now. He’d make himself clear, put his foot down. Just not tonight. “I’m going.” He made for the elevator.

”One more thing before you go,” Jack called after him. Will turned and waited for him to speak. “What did Matthew Brown want?” 

So Jack had been keeping an eye on their conversation after all. Will’s stomach churned. They’d been speaking quietly; he couldn’t have heard anything. 

Will debated for a moment whether to tell the truth. Not that he was in the habit of covering for serial killers—or psychopaths, he wasn’t sure if Brown had crossed the line over into actually killing people yet—but he didn’t want Jack to start monitoring his interactions with _anybody _in the name of ‘protection’. At least, not more than he apparently already was. “Just to apologize. He took us by Stammets’ cell on the way out last time.”

“He _what_?”

“He didn’t know.” 

Jack’s lips pressed together in obvious displeasure. Will may have declined the protective detail, but Jack apparently still hadn’t let the idea go.

Will sighed, scraped a hand through his hair, pausing to squeeze down on his throbbing skull. “I’m going now,” he repeated, releasing his head.

“Keep your phone handy, Graham.”

Will started toward the elevator again, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he called back, “Good night, Jack.”

He opened his eyes in an empty field, a cool breeze batting against him, tangling his hair into his lashes. An impatient hand batted it out of his eyes, before going back down to the grassy ground to push himself up onto his feet. Clouds were gathering overhead, and the air had the distinct scent of rain. Better to find some shelter.

A small wood at the foot of the hill caught his eye—a body of gleaming blue water glittering in the lingering snatches of sunlight that caressed its placid surface. The water called to him; it always did. The trees would be good enough cover from the rain, he reasoned.

Each step felt like it carried him ten, the scenery zipped by him so quickly. The last remnants of the afternoon sun were disappearing behind the portentous clouds darkening the horizon, their accumulated pressure bearing down on him like the weight of the world on Atlas’ shoulders. Every so often a stray droplet of water would splash on the exposed skin of the back of his neck, or on his hands, or on his face. He made it into the wood the moment that the storm broke, torrential showers, deafening him as they pummeled the earth.

The canopy afforded him some cover from the rain, but before long he would be wet through, socks sodden in his boots, and freezing with it. He increased his pace, desperate for someplace to find shelter, not realizing where his trajectory led before he stumbled into a clearing.

_This isn’t right,_ he thought, looking at the freshly tilled soil on the ground in a neat, rectangular patch. _This isn’t what I was looking for_.

He turned to head back into the tree-cover, only to find himself falling face first into the earth. Sputtering around a mouthful of soft, wet dirt, he brushed it from his face as he looked over his shoulder to his feet, trying to spot whatever root he’d caught them in to knock him over.

But it wasn’t a root.

From the earth, a withered, rotting hand had grabbed hold of his leg, its grip tightening to searingly painful, fingers like the teeth on a bear-trap, biting into his flesh.

The dark, tilled soil around the hand turned white, little dots of mold popping up all along the skin. The mold pulsed, toadstools shooting up from its surface, mycelium branching out in every direction. _Reaching_. 

A sharp yank from the hand, and suddenly he’d been buried below the soil to his knee on his left side. Another hand snaked out of the soil to wind round his other leg, this one covered entirely in the fungi. He grunted, trying to kick it away, but it closed around him despite his flailing, and vice-like, began its slow pull downwards.

Will panted with exertion and blood pounded in his ears, as his fingers dug for purchase in the loose earth, searching for anything to grab hold of. Any kind of lifeline.

But his hands ripped the mushrooms up from the roots, and when they dove back into the soil, nothing at all remained to hold on to.

He raised his eyes toward the heavens, hoping for a final recourse. Someone to ask for help. But they never made it that high. Instead, they stopped on a great beast, a giant stag, coat gleaming blue-black in the moonlight, eyes like polished onyx marbles, steam puffing from its nostrils. It took a step toward him, its hoof landing like a thunderclap on the soil as it came out from the trees.

Will reached blindly for it, opening his mouth to call for help. 

He managed no more than a despairing wail, swallowed under the dirt as it closed over his head. The abyss sucking him below now closed once more, the tilled soil above it undisturbed, the fungi carpeting it perfectly still, as though he had never been there at all.

He woke with the sensation of drowning. Suffocating. The burn in his lungs, the ache in his throat and chest, his body bowing off of the bed as though trying to breach the surface. Drenched in sweat, his hair slicked to his face, Will gasped in a life-giving breath of air and proceeded to choke on his saliva.

Coughing, he sat up on the edge of the bed. The chilly winter air cooled his sweat on his skin, and he found himself shivering. With one last, rattling cough, he moved over to his dresser and grabbed the first clean shirt his fingers found inside the drawer. He stripped himself of the sweat-laden cotton, dropping it with a loud splat on the floor so he could change into the new one.

A movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him. Outside the window, low, ominous clouds gathered on the horizon. _Ominous for the weather_, he thought to himself. Shoveling out the driveway could be such a pain. _But more than that…_ the little hairs on his arms stood on end, anxiety churned low in his gut. Something big was coming. He could _feel_ it. 

But the big thing turned out to be rather petite, and rang his bell insistently.

“You hopped the fence? I have any number of signs up, Freddie,” he said, shotgun in hand when he opened his front door. “No trespassing. If I call it in this time, it won’t matter who you know. Get off my property.”

“This is the only place I could find you, except for Quantico, but you gave me the brush off there,” she protested. “And how else are people supposed to let you know they’re here?” she asked, hands held together primly in front of her. The early afternoon sun lit the cloud of her red curls from behind; she almost looked on fire. 

_Better if she was. _

“I can’t ask for permission when your gate is locked and you don’t have a bell there.”

“You can take it for granted that you’re not welcome here, ever,” he said. Then: “Or you coulda honked.” He took a step forward, forcing her back one, toward the stairs on the front porch. 

“And bother the neighbors?” 

Her wide-eyed incredulity combined with this ridiculous suggestion actually made him laugh. It didn’t make him waver from his course of action, though. Freddie was the type to railroad over boundaries until she got what she wanted, and that by itself would justify her means. _His name may sound better for it,_ he thought, _but Machiavelli’s an amateur compared to Lounds._ “I’m calling the police.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. 

“I’ll be gone in just a moment,” she said, hands up, eyes keen. “Though what I have to offer may make you change your mind about calling. Or about kicking me out.”

“Offer,” he dead-panned. “I’ll say the exact same thing as the first time you made me an offer, Freddie.”

“Oh, but I’m not here about Stammets,” voice sugary sweet, she blinked her doe-eyes. “Though the offer to buy that story still stands.”

Will huffed a hot breath through his nose. 

“I’m here to give you a chance to clear your name,” she said, “before I expose you.” She leaned in, eyes glittering with malice. “I know who you are, Will Graham.”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta, metricmadscience, and I were having a discussion which made me very curious: I'd be interested to know what your impressions are about what Eldon and Will got up to during his false imprisonment. Does anyone want to share their theories? 
> 
> Kudos and Comments _always_ appreciated. 
> 
> See you two Thursdays from now!


	8. What you see, what you don't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 40-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Eight

What you see, what you don’t.

-+-

Will smoothed the plastic sheeting on the bed and settled on top of it, not bothering with his boots. His head on the pillow, he tucked his glasses into his shirt-front pocket and squeezed his eyes shut. Behind his eyelids, the pendulum swung.

_This is not who you are_. His mind’s eye opened, taking in the sheared flesh, held aloft by fishing line suspended from the ceiling. The early morning light caught on the line, illuminating it, turning the translucent plastic wire into beams of divine light. _You are more _now_ than you have ever been. This is my gift to you._

The wings crumpled down as he rewound through the scene to the beginning, as he watched as the skin was carved, the flesh pierced and positioned. The painstaking detail, the effort.

_I allow you to be angels._

_This is my design._

“It’s messy,” Beverly said, her voice closer to his head than he expected. His eyes popped open as he sucked in a surprised breath and scrambled off of the bed. _Really need to start asking them to clear the room while I’m working. _Beverly pretended not to notice his near-tumble to the floor, although her eyes flitted his way for a moment as she spoke. “He threw up on the nightstand.”

“Nothing to say that was the perp,” Zeller piped up. He approached the headboard, now that Will had vacated the bed. “Rope fibers,” he announced, holding one aloft between his tweezers before dropping it into an evidence bag. “Could have restrained one of the victims on the bed. Puke could be theirs.”

Will, who had been gravitating closer and closer to the door, stopped in his tracks. “It’s not just the vomit,” he said, swiping the sweat from his brow. “The whole scene is wrong.”

Zeller groaned, his head tilting up as though seeking divine intervention. Fitting, considering the angels at the foot of the bed. “It’s the _Ripper_,” he said for the thousandth time, glancing over at Jack. Price briefly raised his head at this assertion; Beverly frowned. 

Jack remained still as a statue, but his hand shot out to stop Will as he passed by on his way toward the door. “Well?” he asked, jaw clenched tight, grip squeezing Will’s arm a little more tightly than he found comfortable. 

_He’s been waiting for this. Something close enough to be convincing. He’ll take any Ripper he can lay his hands on. _

Will shook his head once, both as an answer and to try and clear it. “I need some air,” Will said. 

Jack’s grip tightened on his arm a little before releasing him. “Don’t go far,” he answered, face still stony, body still wound taut. 

As Will stepped out of the motel room, a bright flash turned his head. There stood Freddie. They made eye contact, and she seemed to burn with malevolent energy for the split second before Will tore his gaze away and made for his car.

Of course she would be here. And _of course_ she’d want a shot of him here. _I know who you are, Will Graham_. She’d said it with such authority. Had she actually seen the notebook inside the package, or was that just a coincidence? It didn’t matter. Everything about her body language when she stared him down in front of his house had said that she knew what she was talking about. But Will had known, deep in his gut, that this was a bluff. Something about the tension in her brow, the fixedness of her smile. 

So he had said nothing at all, merely escorted her off his property, gun still at the ready with her red head in his sights until her rear lights disappeared down the road. She had nothing, had merely been hoping that he’d cave to pressure and give her something truly _interesting_ to write about. Whatever drivel she was writing about him, he could be sure this newest picture would be a part of the story.

Just thinking about it gave him a splitting headache. He pulled his phone from his pocket. _Enough._ [I’ll come by Quantico in the morning. I’m heading home for the day. Need to think]. He sent the message off, ignoring the deluge of notification chimes as Jack texted his protests. He wouldn’t be of any use to Jack just now. 

Will tapped his thumbs along his steering wheel briefly, cheeks puffing out.

_It’s not the Ripper_, he decided, imagining Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, poised in prayer at the foot of the bed. _It’s not him_.

He spaced out for the whole drive back to Wolf Trap, and once there, he still didn’t get much time to think. That very evening, less than twelve hours later, he found himself back at the same motel, in front of one of the rooms on the opposite wing from the morning’s crime scene. Freddie had gotten herself a room here, apparently, to be close to the action.

_Certainly worked out for her_, he thought, ducking under crime scene tape for the second time in one day.

The Ripper had struck. And this go-round, the team’s initial impressions were right. It _was_ him.

Not an extravagant display this time. Subtle, elegant; a rebuke to Gideon’s overwrought Wound Man. And tidy; a rebuke to the Angel-Maker. A plain parcel, no bigger than a box of chocolates and twice as deep, wrapped in brown paper and tied with butcher’s twine. ‘Freddie Lounds’ written on the top, printed in a round, cartoonish hand—a fair facsimile of Miss Lounds’ own writing, Price informed him. A fleck of blood dotted the ‘i’. She’d noted it, apparently, but self-perseveration didn’t override journalistic curiosity, or stop her from opening it and taking a few pictures before calling the police.

In a rare display of good judgement, the moment they saw what was in the package, the cops called Jack in.

The box contained two things: A mask, a porcelain-white, delicate thing just smaller than Will’s hand, with elongated ears, a slender, high-bridged nose that protruded comically far from the face, and a human tongue, stiff from rigor mortis but posed to look as though lolling out of the red-painted mouth; and a small polished bell on a black velvet ribbon with a plain magnetic clasp at the back. The mask had been painted by hand, painstaking brushstrokes for each little hair in its comical eyebrows, a bright red the exact shade of Freddie’s hair.

Beverly reached with a gloved hand to lift one edge of the mask and check if anything had been hidden underneath. Nothing; just the shredded strips of paper that the tokens had been nestled into, but the underside of the mask caught Will’s eye. It had been lined with what could only be human skin. 

Will had never seen anything like it.

Questions poured forth from him, kept inside by the barricade of his clenched teeth. Excitement tingled his fingertips, which he curled into fists so tight that the pressure of his nails against his skin nearly drew blood. Excitement, and a deep, terrible sense of dread underscored all of this.

This setup—

But the package at _his_ door had not been left by the Ripper. Will felt nearly entirely certain that it had been the work of Matthew Brown.

If the Ripper had known about Will’s package, it could be only from reading TattleCrime; that he numbered amongst Freddie’s readership was a generally accepted facet of his criminal profile, and this would confirm that unequivocally. Unless.

Unless he had been there at Will’s house that night. _But why would he have any interest in me?_ He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, blinked past the bright spots that floated in his vision afterward. _No,_ he decided. _It’s just a coincidence._

“It’s a shaming mask,” Beverly intoned, crossing her arms and staring down at the mask. “Used in the 17th and 18th century to punish women for being gossips, eavesdroppers, or liars.”

“Three for three,” muttered Zeller, as though reading Will’s thoughts.

“The bell?” Price asked, ignoring that quip.

“To humiliate the wearer,” she said, placing the lid on the box. “They were forced to walk around with the mask on, the bell ringing to draw attention to them.” She frowned, blowing a gust of air through her nose, clearly dissatisfied with the symbol the Ripper had chosen.

A grunt. “If we all had to wear our sins for others to see, I’d rather be blind,” Price said, uncharacteristically dark.

Will commiserated. This was exactly the reason that Will never looked at anyone, if he could help it. Or at least, never too deeply. People wore their guilt so clearly on their faces, in their body language and movements, that it _screamed _at him. It didn’t take a leap of his imagination, usually, to figure out why.

Beverly placed the box in an evidence bag before glancing around the room. “We’re sure nobody came inside?”

“Lounds was out all day,” Jack answered. ‘Trying to sneak around the Angel-Maker scene’ went unsaid, though the occupants of the room all got that message loud and clear. “So it’s possible.”

She shrugged.

Will’s job was done for now, at least, though theirs had just started. He didn’t envy them, having to root through the room, collect evidence around the walkway and the parking lot. It would take hours, they wouldn’t find anything useful, and it was cold.

Jack stepped closer to him, ushering him out the door and into the parking lot. “You ran off on me this morning, Graham.” Jack’s voice was soft, keeping the scolding between just the two of them. “Don’t do that again.”

What could he even say to that? Will nodded, eyes averted, hands shoved as deep into his pockets as he could manage. 

Jack clapped his hand on Will’s shoulder, his grip tight. When Will looked up, Jack’s head was turned back toward the motel room. “The Ripper?” he asked, before turning back to Will.

He cast his eyes down to his shoes. “This one, yeah.” If Jack looked him in the eye now, surely he would see—

“I’ll expect you in the lab tomorrow morning. The team will have some updates for you by then.” He released Will’s shoulder. “You think you can get me something by the end of the day?”

“Quick turn around,” Will answered. But the team most likely wouldn’t find anything at all, if the Ripper was up to form. It would be a short one, if he didn’t let himself get in too deep. “I’ll try.”

At half past seven, Will parked his car in front of Quantico. He didn’t report in at Jack’s office, instead heading straight for the lab. But instead of providing him with updates, an exhausted-looking Beverly commandeered his help the moment he stepped into her sights. There had been a wealth of evidence that needed processing in the Angel-Maker tableau, of course, and nothing so far to be found in Freddie’s package, so it surprised him when she sat him down at a work table with a pile of shredded newsprint. The cushioning for the mask.

“You any good at puzzles?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, eyeing the pile. He really was—with a little organization and the help of his eidetic memory, jigsaw puzzles rarely presented much of a challenge.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, setting down a six pack of Scotch Tape rolls on the table next to him.

He sighed, rummaged through the drawers under the table top until he found a notepad and a pen. Pen moving in his hand, eyes scanning the pile in front of him, he wrote: _strip-shredder_. He plucked one of the paper strips from the pile and studied it. Red at the top, interrupted with white, sans-serif lettering below. He picked the pen back up. _TattleCrime article_, he wrote. And then, _Intentional_.

Of course, intentional. What had the Ripper ever left behind in his displays that was incidental? For something as restrained as this little gift, every detail would _have_ to mean something. Strip-shredding was used for nonconfidential documentation, too easy to piece together, it wouldn’t do for confidential documents. If it didn’t matter to the tableau, the Ripper would have used a cross- or micro-cut shredder—something that would give no hope at all of being reconstructed.

It took a while, but a pattern emerged quickly enough. Three articles, printed over and over again: _How the Ripper Rips_, the one she’d written about Gideon; _Mushroom Man Letter Promises Death to Will Graham! With Analysis!_, in which she had exposed how little she understood of what happened between Will and Eldon; and her latest article, _Ripper Playing God, Making Angels: Crime Scene Preview_. Not her cleverest headline, and the content was abbreviated, but she’d snuck some good photographs and pushed the few paragraphs out for her readers to enjoy before Will had even made it halfway home from the crime scene.

By the time he’d finished taping each article together, he had four copies of each one, front pages only.

_Why these three?_

He stacked the twelve taped-up sheets together, brought them over to Beverly’s desk and left them there for her to find. She’d gone down with Zeller to the morgue. Only Price remained in the lab, processing evidence, and he didn’t even look up as Will passed by.

The rationale for the Gideon article Will could understand. The misattribution had upset the Ripper. The Angel-Maker article had probably been included for the very same reason. Freddie, like Jack, was quick to point the finger at the Ripper, if a crime scene had any level of flair. But why the one with Stammets’ letter? The only explanation he could think of was that it had misrepresented Stammets too, but there was no way for the Ripper to know that, was there? 

_I’m missing something_. _What am I missing?_

He chewed on that as he headed up to Jack’s office. He’d need more time for the report, after all.

An hour later, he was still trapped in Jack’s office.

“It’s a spree. He’s mad about what happened with Gideon, and he’s going on a spree to show the world he’s alive and well,” Zeller announced from his seat, perched on the arm of Price’s chair across from Jack’s desk.

Will shook his head. He couldn’t explain it. He _knew_ this was different. Phenomenally timed, sure. But it felt _wrong_. This wasn’t the kind of painting the Ripper painted. Zeller, whose comment had been directed mostly at Will anyway, saw his disagreement and let out a frustrated groan.

“The angels have the feel of a Ripper tableau,” Alana suggested gently.

For a moment it was as though he could feel all five pairs of eyes drilling into him, trying to crack open his skull and see whatever thought process had him reaching such a drastically different conclusion. “Compare the Angel-Maker scene to the gift he left Freddie,” Will tried. “Not the same hand.”

“Compare it to the Jeremy French scene,” Zeller countered. “Tongue-in-the-Bible guy? Same religious overtones. Same _theatrics_.” He had a smug, victorious smile on his face.

It wasn’t the _same_ theatrics, and while they both had religious overtones, they were shouting entirely different messages. But he couldn’t find the words to explain _how_ in this moment, at least, not in a way they would understand. “No organs removed,” Will protested, trying a different tack.

“Will—” this, again, from Alana.

“No _vital_ organs removed,” he amended. The genitalia didn’t count. And they were removed post-mortem anyway. _Not_ the Ripper.

They stared.

He couldn’t just go ahead and say that he’d sleepwalked twice last night, that he was too exhausted for the words to come out properly to support his argument. But he _knew _this wasn’t a Ripper scene. It didn’t have—it wasn’t—

The words spilled from his mouth. “And—and how does he go from blood runoff everywhere while making angels and, um, and vomiting on his nightstand to a dainty little porcelain mask? That’s _de-_escalation. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing to say that it’s the perp’s puke,” Zeller cut in, striking like a snake. “Remember the rope fibers—could belong to one of the vics. And it _does_ make sense, if we found the crime scenes in the wrong order.”

Will short-circuited. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Room was booked and paid for until the day after tomorrow. If what we think we know about the Ripper is true, that he’s some upper-cruster, then he probably doesn’t know how these seedy motels work. He’d left a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, but management asked housekeeping to clean out the room before the reservation finished, once he saw the guy’s car never came back. So, we got the scenes backwards. Escalation. I’m telling you, he’s on a spree.” He looked over at Jack, expression so cocky that Will couldn’t stand to look him any longer.

He stood from his spot leaning on the rear wall and paced a little around the back corner of the office, raking his hand through disheveled hair. “It’s not him, Jack,” he tried.

The look Jack levelled at him was all forced patience running thin. _He’s not convinced by Zeller’s theory, but he wants to believe it_, Will realized. _And he will, until I can convince him otherwise._

As if reading his mind, Jack spoke in a slow, measured voice. “Explain it to me, Will. Make me see what you are seeing.”

He shook his head. “I need time to—to formulate my thoughts.” He looked helplessly at Alana, only to shy away from the clinical, concentrated expression on her face. “Give me til tomorrow?”

“Tox will be awhile,” Beverly tossed in, trying to help him out. “We can call you with any updates…?” she trailed off, looking to Jack for approval.

The second Jack gave it, Will bolted from the room. 

Alana chased him down the hallway not seconds after, her heels clicking on the laminate flooring with her hurried pace, her curls bouncing attractively around her face. He slowed, letting her catch up to him, torn between desiring her company and wanting to get away so he could be alone. Drive back to Wolf Trap. Be quiet, just him and the dogs.

“Will,” she said, coming into step beside him, looking for a moment as though she would reach for him, but then keeping her hands in check at her sides.

“Thanks for finishing up the Silvestri case,” he said, still walking, determined to leave the subject of the Ripper behind him for now. “Organ harvesters. Urban myth come to life, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said, “and you’re welcome. I just wish we’d gotten him before he managed to kill Mr. Polaski.”

“What happened with that, anyway?” he asked, trying to keep his eye on the door at the end of the hall: the exit. His escape route from this conversation, from this investigation.

“He was mid-nephrectomy when we found him,” she said, skipping a little to keep up with Will’s strides. “And he’d botched it, nicked all kinds of things on his way to the kidney. EMS didn’t make it fast enough, he bled out.” A little sigh followed. “If Hannibal had been there,” she lamented.

_Then Hannibal could have saved him. _Because Hannibal was a surgeon. He would have been able to reach inside that cavity and repair whatever mistake the medical student had made. He would have been able to save that life. _Another bullet point on the ever-growing list of his many perfections_, he groused to himself, gnawing on the inside of his cheek and resenting the certainty in her tone.

Resented it, but believed it regardless. Will, with his formidable imagination, could see just how it would go. In that moment, he drew the image so clearly that he had to remind himself that he had not, in fact, walked behind that ambulance and peeked between the doors to see Dr. Lecter, hair breaking free from its severe style to fall over his brow, sleeves folded regally past his elbows, gloved hands attending the injury with the brisk efficiency and grace with which they always moved. The benevolent doctor, bringing a dying man back to life. 

His pace slowed, Alana caught up to him, eyeing him, concern on her face over his sudden silence. But Will’s mind was humming away.

_Benevolent?_

Freddie’s article about Stammets’ letter flashed through his head. Maybe it _had_ been about her misreading Stammets. _No_, he thought, changing his mind immediately. _No way. _The Chesapeake Ripper would hardly care about the way Freddie has represented one of his contemporaries. The only other person mentioned in that article was Will himself, but... _No way that the Chesapeake Ripper is angry about her misrepresenting _me_ in that article. _“It’s her journalistic integrity in general he’s got issues with,” he mumbled.

Alana heard, but the confusion on her face said she hadn’t understood. “Will?”

With the door to the outside less than ten steps away, Will stopped abruptly in place and pivoted to face her. “It’s _not him,_ Alana,” he insisted, saying her given name aloud for the first time, feeling his heart squeeze as it left his lips. Her face remained neutral; it didn’t impact her the way it had him. “The Ripper, he’s—” but again, the words stopped in his throat.

Now she did reach out, gently touching the pads of her fingers to his arm over his coat, not enough to press the fabric against him, just enough to make it shift against his skin. As though her were glass that would shatter if pressed too much. “Are you alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” he said. “A little short on sleep, maybe,” he conceded when she raised a brow. “There’s a lot of impressions. It’s hard to put into words, but I _know_. The Angel-Maker and the Chesapeake Ripper are not the same man.”

“It’s not _strictly_ his M.O.,” she conceded, and her posture was open, ready to be accommodating, to act as a sounding board. “And the fact that _any _evidence was left behind is a good argument for a separate killer. But it is similar enough to be worth considering, especially in light of how close it was to the last one.” The box at Freddie’s. _Not the same killer._ “What are you seeing that makes you so certain?”

All good questions. But they gave him nothing to hold on to. This wasn’t working. “When I can explain it clearly enough to satisfy, I’ll give you a call,” he said, feeling the way his teeth gnashed on the bite in his words, seeing the way they stung her, but feeling too out of sorts to be able to do more than shake his head at himself before he stalked the remaining few steps toward the exit. 

He felt like a fool for driving all this way. He should have called first, but he hadn’t even thought about where he was going; one minute he was routed for home, the next, he found himself exiting onto I-95 North toward Baltimore, instead. A little part of him loosened with relief when he realized that the lights were on in the office still (though what Dr. Lecter was doing still at work at seven o’clock on a Thursday night was beyond him), but the relief he squashed immediately. He couldn’t do this.

He _couldn’t_.

Even as he thought those words, his feet propelled him out of his car and across the street, up the steps to the heavy wooden door. 

What was he even hoping to accomplish by coming here? That Dr. Lecter would be able to piece him back together, the way he’d done for Mr. Polaski, over and over in the back of an ambulance? _In my imagination_, Will reminded himself. _Not a memory, a fantasy._

A remembrance of something that hadn’t actually happened, but which he’d replayed inside his head more than once throughout the course of the afternoon. Taking a life was easy enough. He should know. But the idea that somebody close to him could give it back, could put those broken bodies together again and save them from death… the prospect soothed him.

His hand settled on the handle. _If it’s closed, I’ll just turn around and go_.

He pressed down on and it yielded to his touch, swinging open under his hand. He took a tentative step forward into the waiting room. The muted echoes of classical music streamed in through the closed office door. No patient in there.

He knocked, just the once. _I’ll give him five seconds, then I’ll go_.

But just as he began turning to make his escape, the door opened, and there stood Dr. Hannibal Lecter, silhouetted by warm, amber-colored light, dark suit wrinkle-free, deep red shirt and matching tie still perfectly situated despite the late hour.

“Will,” he said, body line lengthening as he stood a little straighter. “A pleasant surprise. Please, come in.”

For a moment, he considered just running, regardless. But like a moth to the flame, Dr. Lecter’s warm smile drew him in. A low fire burned in the hearth, and only a few of the lamps were lit. Dr. Lecter had turned the music off before answering the door, but the room felt cozy, familiar, and already some of the strain melted from Will’s neck and shoulders, though guilt still hung like a noose around his neck.

_A pleasant surprise_. Dr. Lecter had meant it too. “I’m sorry about the texts I sent you the other day,” Will said, eyes darting to the doctor’s chin. A short silence followed, during which the man’s face remained perfectly still. 

“Think nothing of it,” Dr. Lecter said eventually, stepping back further to give Will more room to step inside. “You were not yourself.”

Hah.

Will’s lips twisted into a smile, though he felt leagues away from laughter. He stepped through the door. “Sorry, to—” the subtle touch of the doctor’s fingers against his collar as he helped him doff his coat threw him off balance. He hadn’t been expecting a repeat of that courtesy, not without advanced warning. “—to barge in when it’s so late.”

“You are most welcome at any time when I do not have patients, of course.” Dr. Lecter hung the coat up neatly, smoothing it as though hoping that the caress would encourage the wrinkles to fall from the fabric. A losing battle. “A drink?”

_He’s not asking why I’m here. He knows why I’m here. Or has some idea, at least._

“Please,” Will replied, ambling over to the desk and chairs. He eyeballed the ladder to the mezzanine and had to press down the immediate urge to explore. “It’s this case I’m working,” he said, collapsing into his chair.

Dr. Lecter approached him, hand extended with his offering of whiskey, the same Blue Label that Will had so enjoyed the last time. Will accepted it with a gruff thanks, his other hand combing agitatedly through his curls. 

“I was under the impression that your work with Jack came to an end with the closing of the Gideon case,” he settled into his seat, lowering himself with a dancer’s grace. “Has he invited you to consult for him again?”

Will mumbled his affirmative, looking sullenly down into his glass.

“I am aware of a, shall we say, _confirmed_ Ripper scene.”

“Freddie wasted no time on that one, huh?” Will sighed. She’d posted images before the police had even gotten there. So much for her wide-eyed fear when they’d arrived on her doorstep. Dr. Lecter did not deny that this was how he had obtained his news, and his expression took a humorous cast for a moment. _Finding it funny he’s been caught out as one of her readers, maybe_? “The Ripper reappearing just muddied the waters,” Will added. “I can’t—I’m finding it hard to explain my reasoning to Jack. He sees the Ripper everywhere.” 

Dr. Lecter paused, puzzling through Will’s words. “There has been another crime scene, then?”

Will nodded jerkily. “Same motel, six doors down, just a few hours before the Ripper mask. That place is gonna go out of business.” He glanced up. “Was that not in the article?”

With a tip of his chin toward his shoulder, the closest he would come to an actual shrug, Dr. Lecter answered: “She made a reference to an Angel-Maker, though I had not read the article referenced.”

Will didn’t buy that for a minute. Dr. Lecter’s face was too still, too perfectly neutral. At least he hadn’t denied being her reader; maybe he just didn’t want to come off as a fan? He didn’t say anything, opting instead to watch the swirl of his whiskey in his glass.

A low, considered hum before Dr. Lecter continued. “So while Jack strongly believes this other scene was also the Ripper’s work, you are convinced he is incorrect.” When Will confirmed this, he asked, “what differentiates one killer’s work from the other?”

Will wasn’t sure how to untangle the myriad impressions floating in his mind to make a cogent statement. He made two false starts before throwing his hands up. “The Angel-Maker has the Ripper’s theatricality, in a way…” That was as far as he managed. His thoughts were a bog, and he was slowing sinking in the middle of it.

“Perhaps it may help us both, as I am not acquainted with the particulars of this new tableau, for you to describe it.”

This time, he seemed earnest. Had he really not read the article? _You’re so off your game you’re seeing things where there’s nothing to see, and not seeing the things everyone else is, Graham_. The chastisement, despite its vehemence, didn’t feel true. 

Will shut his eyes, concentrating on Dr. Lecter’s request to describe the scene. He leaned back in his seat, the strain falling from his shoulders. _This would be so much easier if he could just be consulting with me_. Then they could skip this tedious step. Then he wouldn’t have to put off asking Alana out until they closed the case. “Two victims,” he started. “Naked, on their knees, posed in prayer at the foot of the motel bed. The skin of their backs—” he pantomimed the shape of the incisions that had been made, “peeled off and held aloft with fishing wire. Like wings.”

“Making angels to watch over him as he sleeps,” Dr. Lecter mused.

“Yeah.” A silence fell as Dr. Lecter took a sip of his drink while Will stared into the middle distance, gently bouncing the edge of his glass against the leather-upholstered armrest of his chair. “Price said it would have taken them about fifteen minutes to bleed out before they died. Post-mortem removal of the genitalia.” Another pause. “He threw up on the nightstand.”

Dr. Lecter tilted his head. “I suppose toxicology reports have yet to be submitted?”

Will hummed, gaze blurring as he looked past the pattern on the carpet, into the abyss. “The room was a mess. Jack is hoping this is the one where the Ripper finally made a mistake.” A shuddering breath in, before he glanced up at Dr. Lecter. “But he’s wrong. It’s not him. The Angel-Maker gives his victims the gift of becoming angels. There’s something righteous about his kills.”

“How did this impression differ from the one made by the Ripper’s most recent work?” Dr. Lecter asked.

Will felt his skin break into goosebumps that danced down his neck, his hands grew clammy. “The Ripper… _righteous_ is not who the Ripper is; he’s too detached.” He stalled with a sip of whiskey as he tried to attribute words to the memory. “It was understated. Elegant, even. He has a clear vision. Something he wants to communicate to his audience. The angel-maker’s work is personal; it’s about _him_. The Ripper—he…” Will trailed off, closing his eyes, watching the memory of Beverly revealing the mask inside the box, reliving the sensations that coursed through him at the time. “He has a sense of humor. The mask was very… tongue in cheek, almost, as though it were reminding Freddie to be grateful she’s a woman of this time. And the bell on the ribbon was fine, tasteful. Something you’d wear on a date if you had the clapper taken out.”

“Had it been?”

Will’s eyes popped open and met Dr. Lecter’s. They burned with interest, and Will felt for a moment he could fall into them again, the way he had the last time he visited this office. He moved his gaze down to the safety of the lapel of the doctor’s suit. “I’m not sure.”

“The clapper of a bell is also referred to as a tongue,” Dr. Lecter commented off-hand, his lip quirking upward minutely.

“Then it was probably taken out,” Will said, feeling his own lips twitching upward in mimicry of the doctor’s expression. “She doesn’t need a bell anyway; that hair draws enough attention as it is.”

“Yes, my thoughts exactly,” Dr. Lecter said, leaning forward again, trying to catch Will’s eye.

Will’s head snapped up at the words. Something about that—

“I don’t believe the Ripper has created any previous tableaux on so small a scale,” Dr. Lecter said, cutting off Will’s thoughts. “Would this count as one for his sounder of three, do you suppose?”

Will’s lips twisted down as he turned this thought over. “I don’t think so, no. This is a direct message to Freddie. Personal mail. His tableaux are meant for everyone to enjoy.”

Dr. Lecter seemed to ruminate on this, and Will let his eyes travel back down to the doctor’s hands, loosely holding his glass. 

“Then there’s the articles.” 

“Articles?” Dr. Lecter asked. “Miss Lounds has been rather incomplete in her reporting.”

This startled a laugh from Will, and he slumped back into his seat, some of the tension that had been rising within him again melting away. “She didn’t know. They’re the, uh, bedding for the mask and bell. I pieced them all together this morning.” Dr. Lecter hummed but said nothing, clearly waiting for Will to elaborate. 

But looking at him now, something stayed Will’s tongue. He thought briefly of Alana and the concern on her face when she looked at him in the hallway at Quantico. Even though he felt _certain_ that Dr. Lecter wouldn’t respond that way, that he was too _detached…_

Will blinked. _Too detached?_

“Will?” 

Had his approach to this particular puzzle been wide of the mark? This was a _personal _rebuke, after all. “Some of Freddie’s writing,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the air, as though it weren’t important. “All of them pointing the finger to the wrong killer.” _A personal rebuke,_ Will thought, trying to fit the pieces together. _What if he knows Stammets personally? _

But Eldon would have mentioned something if he knew the Ripper. Wouldn’t he? 

Suddenly uncomfortable, Will added, “you don’t see that kind of subtlety in the Angel-Maker’s work. He hacks off genitals and lets the vics bleed out where he carved them up.” The way the doctor tilted his head told Will he didn’t buy the deflection, but he allowed Will to change the subject.

“The Ripper,” Dr. Lecter offered, hesitating for a moment—_fact checking, maybe_—before contributing, “has never created a tableau consisting of more than one victim,” he offered.

“And his kills aren’t so close together. Usually a few days in between. Two in one day, though...” He sighed. “Zeller thinks the Ripper was counting on the Angel bodies being found later. But that leaves too much to chance. The Ripper is meticulous. He wouldn’t _count_ on that, he’d _make_ it happen the way he wanted it to.”

“The next crime scene will bear you out,” said Dr. Lecter. “If there is another pair of kneeling angels, then all suspicion of the Ripper’s involvement should disappear.”

“He doesn’t repeat himself,” Will agreed. “But it’s a waste of time. We could be _catching_ this guy.” He blinked, shook his head. Jack’s words coming out of his mouth.

Will stood, suddenly impatient. After Stammets, he’d been so _porous. _They’d just seeped right in: Gideon and Silvestri, now the Ripper and the Angel-Maker. And worst of all, _Jack_. _Get a grip_, he scolded himself, running a hand through his hair. _Stay focused._

He ambled about the room, pausing at the small stand-up piano—_no, not a piano. Not enough octaves, keys too slim. A harpsichord?_— by the wall. 

Will hadn’t played his own piano in ages. 

Touching a few of the smooth, ivory-colored keys down, he listened to the reverberations of their notes. _Of _course _he has a harpsichord._ _Knowing Dr. Lecter, _Will thought, finger sliding down the length of one key, _maybe it really is ivory. _

He glanced up at the doctor, caught him watching his progress around the room. _Or maybe not. He’s a more progressive thinker than he presents himself to be. _One more note under his fingers, it’s soft, bright sound vibrating the air. _Maybe it’s recycled ivory._

“Shall we return to the facts of the case?” The doctor shifted, leaning forward in his seat, forearms on his knees, that intensely interested gleam in his eyes. “Biblical angels do not have wings; artworks featuring winged angels date back only as far as the fourth century. And yet he is righteous; he gives them wings and poses them in prayer. Were they praying over him, or praying _to_ him?”

Will closed his eyes, remembering the way the victims’ heads bowed over their hands, the fishing line holding them up and binding them together. How comforting their presence at the foot of his bed. “Praying over him,” he murmured. “He makes them angels, but he is not their god. He can’t sleep without someone watching over him. He’s afraid. Weak.” He came to a stop by the desk, perched on its edge.

Dr. Lecter sat back, satisfied. He laced his fingers together, his neatly manicured fingertips obscuring the view of the bluish-tinted veins running along the back of his tanned hands. “What is he afraid of?”

For a wild moment, Will wanted to shout ‘I don’t know!’ and storm from the room. But then the afterimage of the vomit flashed before his eyes, and something fell into place. _Not regret_. He had no way of _knowing_, but somehow, he felt certain. “He’s not well. He’s—he’s sick.”

The moment the words dropped from his lips, Will rocketed from his spot on the desk, rushing to the coat rack.

“Leaving already?” Dr. Lecter stood and followed at a sedate pace. Though he walked with perfect poise, and though his voice sounded unaffected though curious, Will detected an undercurrent of disappointment or dissatisfaction in the stiffness of his neutral expression.

“No—I need a minute to call the lab. See if they have any updates. I’ll, um,” he gestured to the door, and shut himself into the quiet of the waiting room.

Beverly answered in less than two rings. “Will, we were just about to call you. Tox came back.”

“Just what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You psychic now?” she teased, before putting her hand over the mouthpiece. Her voice, though muffled, still came through. “Zee, get over here!”

Without preamble, he rattled off the results. “Dexamethasone, Keppra, Gamma-4. Steroids, anticonvulsants, radiation. Our guy has a brain tumor.”

“Not the Ripper,” Will breathed, hoping that _this time_, he’d get some traction with his teammates. “The man who sent that neatly-tied-up package to Freddie Lounds was too composed to be fearing an imminent death, suffering from brain cancer.”

Zeller made some sort of sound, which despite its reluctance, spoke of agreement. “We’re working on processing the trace evidence—so far it’s looking like it’s all down to bad cleaning practices on the part of the motel staff, or belonging to the vics. Hopefully we’ll have something soon.”

“I’m not sure it’ll be soon enough,” Will said, more to himself than anything, before turning his attention back to the call. “Thanks, Zee. I’ll stop by in the morning.” He hung up then, only to realize what name he’d used before hanging up. Hopefully Zeller would take it as an overture of friendship, rather than Will being presumptuous. Not that it particularly mattered.

When he reentered the office, Dr. Lecter stood behind the desk, writing something in a notebook that looked familiar. Maybe he had all his notebooks made the same way; maybe it wasn’t Gideon’s notebook. But if it were, they’d both submitted their reports. That case was closed.

“I take it they had something of interest to share,” he said, diverting Will’s attention from the stationery and to his face.

“It’s brain cancer.” Will’s voice came out laden with disappointment.

Dr. Lecter hummed, then cast a meaningful look up to the mezzanine before gesturing Will toward the ladder.

A private little part of him thrilled at the chance to go take a look around up there; a larger part disliked that the moment he was off the ladder, Dr. Lecter followed him up. As Dr. Lecter slid along the bookshelves toward him, Will felt increasingly hemmed in. There was just enough room that if he wanted to, he could squeeze past the doctor and go back down. But he didn’t think he could handle any contact just now, even of the passing variety. His nerves rankled. Instead of escaping, he made himself as small as he could manage, looking at the books on the very edge of the last bookcase on the far end of the mezzanine.

Dr. Lecter either chose to ignore or did not notice Will’s discomfort, pausing once or twice to flip through a book before replacing it and then moving closer to where Will had folded in on himself. At last, he stopped within arm's reach to pull a slim title from the shelf. It put a satisfied smile on his lips. “Here it is,” he said, flipping through it to confirm before handing it over to Will. 

_A Neuroscience Primer,_ Will read to himself, ignoring the two-line subtitle embossed on the cover, taking the book from Dr. Lecter’s outstretched hands. _To help me reconstruct his thinking? _

“Some light reading,” the doctor joked, then turned on silent feet to make his way back down.

Even on the ladder, Dr. Lecter’s movements were eerily silent. Will listened as his own shoes thudded down on the wood floors below him, each step thunderous in his ears. Consciously, he tried to lighten his step, to emulate the doctor’s silence, but for the moment it seemed to be a feat outside of his reach. Once down the ladder, her looked briefly at the doctor’s shoes—again, likely bespoke—but there wasn’t anything remarkable about the soles that would lend them such a quiet tread.

Dr. Lecter, though only a few inches taller than Will, was broader, more muscular, and infinitely more poised. It crossed Will’s mind to ask Dr. Lecter if had taken dance lessons as a child, but he managed to head that question off before he embarrassed himself entirely.

“I’m not sure…” he started, focusing again on the book in his hands before dropping it on the desk on the way to his seat, “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to think like someone who has a brain tumor, changing the way they think.”

“The location of the lesion will decide which cognitive functions may be impacted,” Dr. Lecter suggested, gesturing to the book on his desk. “We can work backwards from his behaviours to determine lesion site. Increased impulsivity, for example, may imply a frontal lobe lesion.” He tapped his forehead once. “Such a lesion may also manifest behavioral changes such as abulia, decreased executive functions, expressive language impairments, or motor changes such as tremor or gait disorders.”

“But at this late stage…” Will argued, unconvinced. “It would be a crapshoot, wouldn’t it? Every day he would be a different man. We’d still be shooting in the dark.”

Dr. Lecter did not contradict this. He folded his fingers together, tilted his head in thought. “His internal personal narratives may indeed be in flux,” he said. “Though the exercise may prove instructive regardless.”

Will tilted his head toward his shoulder, lips pressed firmly together. “Instructive, but not illuminating.” 

“It may help to flesh out his profile.”

“Which would end up changing again when we find the next crime scene.” Will sighed, dispirited. “Better if we wait for a DNA match.” He tapped his fingers against the cover of the book. Silence fell between them. 

Something about this case didn’t sit right. He knew Jack would want him to work it to the end, now that he had started it, even though it had turned out to not be the Ripper’s work. But that didn’t matter. He had a premonition that this case wouldn’t last much longer.

“Whoever is going around making angels won’t be around much longer before becoming one himself,” he decided aloud, after a long pause. “We’re not going to catch this one.”

“Another one of your instincts?”

“Mmm.”

“And what of the Ripper?”

Will looked up, catching Dr. Lecter’s eye for a split second before looking away. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to hold eye-contact with him just now. “Catch the Ripper...?” he mused. 

He left not long after this exchange, the simple question still unanswered. 

When his phone rang, jarring him from his slumber, he was standing by the kitchen door, one hand fruitlessly jiggling the doorknob; in his sleep, he hadn’t been able to unlock the three different latches above the handle, thank goodness.

He stumbled over himself back to where he’d left his phone. He caught it just as it pitched over the edge of the nightstand, answered it before the caller hung up.

“Graham,” he said, perching on the edge of his mattress, feet grounded on the floor. Reorienting himself. Whatever he had been dreaming made his head feel fuzzy, but the images that got him out of bed had already disappeared from his memory.

“Will.” Alana’s voice was a balm to his frayed nerves. “Are you able to get to Quantico?”

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, the red numbers in relief against the darkness. Barely past one. There wouldn’t be much traffic if any. “Yeah,” he answered, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as he moved to rifle through his dresser for a dry shirt and a clean pair of pants. “Another angel?”

“Among other things,” Alana sighed.

“Nothing to pin down the perp?” The shirt change would have to wait until he was off the phone, so he stuck a bare foot through one pant leg and wiggled it halfway up to his knee.

“Price found some hair follicles in the pillow that had gone under the radar. DNA just came back a minute ago. A Mr. Elliot Budish. We’re trying to get in touch with his wife.”

“He doesn’t have long,” Will said, hiking the jeans over his hips and fumbling with the zipper. “I don’t think we’ll catch him in time, before… It just feels like we’ve been one step too far behind from the beginning.”

She hummed. “The Chesapeake Ripper’s reappearance obfuscated things.” She sounded as resigned as he felt. “I’m sorry, Will.”

There wasn’t any need to specify. The apology was on behalf of the team; they hadn’t taken his protests seriously. Their desire to catch the Ripper deafened them to opinions to the contrary. “It’s fine. It wouldn’t have made a difference in the progress of the case anyway, and I wasn’t able to articulate it well enough to be convincing at the time,” he said, knowing that no matter how cogently he had phrased his protests, Jack would have bulldozed over him in his hopes that the Ripper had slipped at long last.

Her soft chuckle thrilled him. “Are you able to now, then?”

Shoving his feet into his boots, he debated how to answer. “Yeah. I talked to Doctor Lecter,” he said, “and you were right. He’s pretty good at all that.” As soon as he said the words, he realized how true they felt. “I’ll be there in under an hour,” he promised as they exchanged goodbyes.

She didn’t seem bothered by the fact that he’d discussed the case with someone else—yes, Lecter was a consultant too, but only occasionally, and _he _hadn’t been assigned to the case, Alana had. When he’d tried talking through the case with her before, the conversation had stalled rather quickly. She was open and receptive, but there was something about the way she looked at him while he voiced his impressions that made him clam up. Concern.

Worse, _clinical _concern.

If nobody could ever look at him like that, he would be happy. _Especially_ not someone he was romantically interested in.

Funny enough, the one person who never looked at him that way was Dr. Lecter; that was probably why he found himself so comfortable discussing the case with him. No concern, no pity, no judgement. To think that he had been so reticent to meet the man, so disinterested in him at first. Things were starting to take the shape of something like a _friendship_, or at least the desire for one, from his side.

It seemed doubtful to him that the doctor would return that desire. Sure, he’d made a few references to friendship, but that was only when they first met. On getting to know Will a little better, he’d probably changed his mind. They lived in two vastly different worlds, after all. But Dr. Lecter seemed amenable to surprise drop-in visits, at least. And he seemed to find something to enjoy their conversations, morbid though they might tend to be.

For a moment, as he maneuvered the on-ramp to the highway, his eyes lingered on the sign for the I-495 heading north to Baltimore, and he almost missed his exit to turn the other way. He crossed two lanes to make the exit. Luckily there was nobody behind to see him driving like an asshole.

A long drive to Quantico, even in the dead of night. He flicked on the radio, looking for something that would settle his rankling nerves. Usually talk radio helped, the soothing drone of the hosts’ voices on the late-night show enough to zone out to. Tonight though, the words kept distracting him, pulling him in and out of the gale of thoughts about Elliot Budish.

When the radio scanner stopped on 90.9 FM, NPR’s classical music station, the strings and piano provided the respite that he needed. The gale calmed, revealing a placid lake where he could sit in his boat and turn his thoughts over one by one, in peace. His mind drifted back to that piece— _Ravel. Un Barque Sur L’Ocean_—and then the feel of the Dr. Lecter’s harpsichord keys under his fingers.

He’d have to see if he could find the sheet music. Rusty though he was, he’d been quite good at piano, at one point in his life. He’d have to find a piano tuner for it though. A big expense, one he should probably save for.

_There’s a string shop not too far from Dr. Lecter’s_, he remembered, flipping on his turn signal to get into the express lanes heading south. “Maybe I’ll go check them out, next time I stop by.” 

-+-

Headlights shining through the gate, he peered through the darkness at Mr. Graham’s house. The lights were all off inside, but the car was no longer in the driveway. _Damn it_. He glanced down into the passenger seat, where the bolt cutters were sitting among the trash he’d yet to clear out, but changed his mind right away. _Better not_.

“Well,” he said to himself, tapping the steering wheel of his truck, chewing on his lower lip. “There’s something to be said for playing hard to get.”

With that, Matthew reversed back to the main road, and made the trek back home from Wolf Trap. Will had yet to text him. Matthew wasn’t stupid. Mr. Graham would be incredibly busy right now, what with those rumors of the Ripper reappearing. Something like a message from Eldon Stammets would be enticing, but not at the forefront of his thoughts.

Granted, he’d been sure he would hear from Mr. Graham within the day. He’d seemed so _tempted_, his doe-like blue eyes wide and glittering when he took hold of the paper with Matthew’s number on it. In the long run, Matthew wanted Will to find temptation in more than the promise of some secret communication with Stammets.

“You ever seen—” he started, practicing again. But no, Mr. Graham was a bit more eloquent than that. “Have you ever noticed the way smaller birds will mob a hawk on a wire, Mr. Graham?” _That sounds better_. It was a bit of a drive from Wolf Trap back to D.C., but this late, he didn’t have any traffic to wrestle.

Still, plenty of time to work on his pitch.

Another day or so. If Mr. Graham didn’t get back to him by Monday night, he’d _reach out _to him on his own.

“We’re the hawks,” he whispered into the darkness of the truck. _No. Not quite right. _“You and me. We’re the hawks, Mr. Graham.”

_Better_.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you tiring of the Alana/Will tension, I hope this chapter gave you hope! Its end is coming! Soon! And for those of you hoping for more Hannibal/Will tension, I hope this chapter gave you hope, too! More is coming! And Soon!
> 
> Alright! And here we break for the holidays. The next chapter will be out either on Jan 02, 2020, or on Jan 09, 2020, depending on how things go with holiday schedules for me and my beta reader. Chapter 09 is a shorter one, so hopefully we can push it out by the 2nd, but I cant' guarantee anything at this point. Rest assured that I'll be writing ahead a ton over the holiday break, so that we can get back to uninterrupted releases. I lost my lead during Nano, but I'll regain it soon. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, Fannibals!


	9. What they want to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reward for your patience over the holiday break: 25 glorious pages, Just. For. You.
> 
> CW: Just a heads up, we’re starting to live up to some of the violence-related tags. 
> 
> Approximately a 45-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Nine

What they want to give.

-+-

The remainder of the drive to Quantico, for all that it took an hour, passed in a flash. Alana, who had gotten back from the crime scene before his arrival, met him at the door of the building with photographs in hand, and started briefing him before they had set foot into the consultant’s office. 

“Only trace DNA at the first crime scene,” she said, hair bouncing around her shoulders with each hurried step, so that Will wondered how she managed to look so put together, so beautiful, when called to a crime scene in the middle of the night. “But he left much more this time around. His latest angel was suspended from fire escapes on either side of the alleyway. Genital mutilations as usual. But this time, Budish performed an orchiectomy on himself, too.”

“What?” He couldn’t help the painful clench of his abdomen on hearing the words. 

“Yeah,” Alana said, lips pressing together in a frown. “He left his severed testicles at the angel’s feet.”

Will reviewed the photographs as Alana walked him through the events of the night. Included with the crime scene photographs were two head-shots of Mr. Budish himself: one taken from his wife’s public social media account, the other his driver’s license photograph. The ID picture had been taken years before— he looked clean shaven, bright eyed, and put-together, even if the lighting didn’t flatter. In the newer one, posed with wife and children, he looked haggard, hair messy and lank, skin sallow, slack-jawed with bags under his eyes. Will’s heart twisted just to look at him.

_Not the same man._

Jack gave them less than half an hour to catch up on the case before storming into their low-toned discussion. “We’re rolling out to Roanoke,” he announced when both sets of eyes trained on him. Or at least in his general vicinity: Will’s landed somewhere above Jack’s head, noting the arhythmic flickering of the fluorescent lighting in the hallway behind him.

“It’s two-thirty,” Alana protested. “We’d be in Roanoke before six! Have we gotten a hold of Mrs. Budish? Is she expecting us?”

“Haven’t gotten a line on her yet, but we’ll be calling on the ride down.”

Alana reluctantly scooped up the papers scattered on the desk in front of her. “Roanoke is more than three hours from here, Jack. If she’s not even answering the phone, what’s to say she’s home? We could be driving out there for nothing.”

He shook his head minutely, impatience thinning his lips further. “Warrant came through. We can search the house whether she’s home or not.”

“He won’t be there,” Will said, blinking away the spectre of Elliot Budish that loomed, ghostly pale and flickering in time with the lights, behind Jack. But this argument didn’t matter. Jack, now cherishing the idea of banging the door down if he must, would not relent. 

“You’re riding with me, Graham.”

Will wanted to protest, but the prospect of an additional few hours of sleep on the ride over won him over. He nodded his agreement and trailed after the two, marching determinedly through the halls ahead of him. 

He managed one hour of sleep before Jack woke him with the sole purpose of making him regret giving in to the carpool. 

The words that woke him were these: “Got through to the wife.” This, Jack announced tersely, one eye on the road, one on his phone screen, on which he tapped away—writing some sort of reply to the text message with that news. “She’s ready to talk when we get there. Says she hasn’t seen her husband in a while.”

Will nodded. This much he expected. Budish’s actions spoke of his desire to leave the world behind. He would have cut ties with his family much earlier on, long before he started dropping bodies. Long before he started leaving pieces of himself at crime scenes. “She might still have something useful to share,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against the passenger window, letting the glass cool the simmering in his skull. 

“Will,” Jack said after a beat, and the gravity in his voice immediately reminded Will of the Sisters, who used that tone before producing the ruler. Their delight in corporal punishment never seemed to change, no matter how many different schools he attended growing up. “We need to discuss your recent work performance.”

A handful of times, Will had watched as his dogs had their little arguments around the house. With seven of them, it tended to happen. He’d seen the proverbial raising of the hackles. The way their fur stood on end, lips curled back to expose teeth. He thanked the heavens that he had turned to the window; for a split second, like any of his roommates, he felt the fine hairs rise on the back of his neck, the blast of cold air on his gums as his lip peeled back.

“My performance,” Will seethed, tamping down the urge to growl. 

“I have expectations of my team,” Jack continued, not overtly acknowledging the attitude in Will’s response. “If you have an alternative theory for a case, you need to be able to present it in a professional manner. We can’t run things based on your feelings and instincts, Will.”

“I presented my objections to Zeller’s suppositions,” he argued, channeling Dr. Lecter’s calm coolness when he rebuked Dr. Chilton on their second visit. 

“Without cogency. You couldn’t explain yourself. What’s been going on with you, Will?” Jack glanced over at him, and disappointment and concern seemed to battle for control of his brows. “You look strung out. You’re _acting _strung out. I’m concerned.” He didn’t sound concerned. He sounded _angry_, and it came out in the oppressive volume of his voice in the small space of the car, the tension of his hands on the steering wheel. 

“Are you implying I’m _on_ something?” Will couldn’t hold back the incredulity that colored his words.

“_Are_ you?”

“Jesus, Jack, _no_,” he answered, facing him fully, looking him _almost_ in the eye, focusing on the fold on the skin of his lower eyelid. As close as he could comfortably get. “I’ve been battling a—I’ve been _sick_.” 

“Sick or not, Will, you’re not working at the level we need you.” Jack flicked on his blinker and changed lanes to dodge around a slow-moving sedan. Will caught sight of the odometer and found himself unsurprised to see Jack going at least fifteen over the speed limit. “We’ve fallen too far behind.” He added, “We could have _caught him_ by now,” and Will could feel the way those words moved his own mouth, having said something very similar only the night before. 

“No,” Will disagreed. “Even if you had gone with my interpretation to begin with, we would still be where we are right now.” He rushed to speak when he saw that Jack meant to cut him off. “We still wouldn’t have known _who_ was responsible. That was Price’s discovery, and its timing wouldn’t have changed for us knowing that the Angel-Maker had a god-complex and a fatal illness.”

Jack glanced his way, expression tight. “Up your game, Graham,” he said, ending the discussion, having had the final word. 

The car settled back into silence—an uneasy one, this time—and Will found that no matter how long he closed his eyes in the next two hours, he couldn’t fall back asleep. 

The clock hit six just as Jack pulled into an empty spot in front of Mrs. Budish’s house. Perfectly coinciding with the unbuckling of their seatbelts, Will’s phone dinged with an incoming text message. They both startled. 

“Doctor Bloom?” Jack asked, looking in his mirrors to see if her car had pulled up behind them. Silly of him; Alana wouldn’t text and drive. 

“No,” he said, tapping on the message notification. “Doctor Lecter.”

Jack remained unmoving, peering at the phone screen. Will angled it away. His nose wrinkled as he read the message. _[My apologies for texting so early, but I wanted to be sure you had ample time to respond,] _read the first message. Another one appeared immediately below it. _[I must confess I greatly enjoyed your company yesterday. Will you not reconsider joining Jack, Alana, and me for dinner this evening? Please take your time to decide.]_

“Well?” Jack asked, brusque, as though their exit from the car and pouncing on Mrs. Budish waited only on the message, and not on the arrival of the other profiler. 

Though he wanted to remind Jack that his conversations with Dr. Lecter were nobody’s business but his (and Dr. Lecter’s) own, as the message had mentioned Jack by name, he opted to be cooperative. “He’s asking if I’m joining you all for dinner tonight,” Will said. One more message followed, containing the doctor’s home address. 

“Are you?” Jack asked, surprise and interest in his voice, as though the invitation were unexpected.

Will gnawed on his lip as he typed in his message. “I, uh…” he paused as he typed out his response. _[Thank you for the invitation, Dr. Lecter, but I have to decline.]_ It sounded like something you might check off on an RSVP card for a wedding, and in its formality perfectly appropriate, given the man who would receive it. _[Please enjoy yourselves tonight.]_ After re-reading once, he sent it. “No, I’m not.”

Alana pulled in behind them then, and Jack and Will got out of the car in synchrony. He crossed his fingers for smooth sailing, for a quick and easy interview with a solid lead and a quick resolution. 

But this little visit to Roanoke didn’t go the way he hoped. _Do they ever? _

Mrs. Budish didn’t have much useful to say about her husband. She hadn’t even seen him in the last two weeks. She seemed irritated that she had to tell them so in person, already having said as much over the phone a few hours before, at a time when most people should rightfully be sleeping in bed. She talked at length but said little, and they found nothing in her disclosures that would lead anywhere productive.

Until.

“You’re husband’s dying, Mrs. Budish,” Jack said. “We want to find him before he hurts himself or anyone else.”

She sighed, dropped her head into her hands, her dirty-blond hair obscuring her face. Better that he couldn’t see her eyes: they were a sea of conflicting emotions, so overwhelming that he could barely stand to look at them. “He must be happy, then,” her voice a thready thing. “He always did say when he reached the end again, he’d do it with a smile. But then, maybe not. He’s not the same man anymore.”

Will could feel the answer, suddenly, within his grasp. “Again?”

“He died once before. Suffocated in a fire when he was a little boy. The fireman who resuscitated him said he must’ve had a guardian angel.”

“Where was this?”

It took them another hour to get there; Will’s watch read just past quarter to eight when they parked and stepped out of their vehicles.

The sky had gone grey, clouds blocking out the morning sun, their pressure palpable in the air. A damp, icy breeze snuck in between the edge of his scarf and the collar of his coat, like a clammy hand gripping at the back of his neck, scruffing him like an unruly kitten. In front of this bleak backdrop sat an even bleaker building: the old barn, half burnt to ashes, where Mr. Budish often went to seek solace. 

The place where he had died once before. 

Will knew the moment he saw it what he ought to expect inside. The barn door, left open, stood like a great, yawning mouth, framed in chapped white lips, flecks of the chipping paint breaking off to flit away in the sudden gusts of wind. Apart from the spittle spraying from the frame, the building sat cloaked in stillness, impervious to the movement all around it. Dark. Barren. 

Dead. 

They stepped into the gaping mouth and looked up to find yet another angel, hanging in the rafters. The clouds parted above them and a snatch of sunlight dropped into the barn through the holes in the dilapidated ceiling, illuminating the corpse from behind in a shaft of light. 

Will didn’t need to see the man’s face to know they had caught up to Elliot Budish at last. 

The clouds blocked the sun once more, and Jack pointed his flashlight up. “It’s Budish,” he said, an undercurrent of annoyance, of disappointment, making his voice heavy. 

Will stepped forward, eyes on the blood dripping from the man’s wings. Jacks voice as he called for a coroner felt like a distant echo. The clammy hand gripped at the back of Will’s neck once more; sweat dripped down his temples in time with the blood spattering onto the ground before him. 

“It wasn’t God, it wasn’t man. It was his choice to die,” he muttered. Jack didn’t seem to hear, too busy calling out orders. Will waited until the barn quieted before speaking again. “I don’t know if I can be all that useful to you anymore, Jack.”

“What?” Jack walked up beside him, heedless of the body, attention trained entirely on Will. 

For his part, Will could not tear his eyes from the man-made angel before him. “I didn’t help you catch this one. He surrendered.” He swiped at his forehead, noting absently the way the fabric darkened as he pulled away. 

“Will,” Jack said, and the use of his first name jarred Will out of his trance, pulled his eyes from the body. “We _caught_ him. The way you’re reading these crime scenes, reading these killers. You have the key. You can unlock the Ripper for us.”

But the pep-talk fell flat after the dressing down he’d given on the drive over. Will shook his head. “I can make myself look,” he countered, “but the thinking is shutting down.”

“Why? What is it that makes Budish special?”

“It’s not _him_, it’s all of them. All of them together.” Jack’s look of incomprehension sent Will’s eyes hopping around the room, looking for a way to answer that he’d understand. “Think of my mind like the farmland out there. A small plot,” he said. 

Eldon’s garden flashed like a vision before his eyes. _A small plot_. 

“You plant a tree, nurture it, its roots grow deep. It thrives, bears fruit. But you plant too many at once in this small plot... if you plant say, nine at once,”—the number of graves in Eldon’s garden—“they crowd in. The trees compete for nutrients. Growth is stunted. A few die. Maybe one will flower, but no fruit.” He licked his lips. “More than one leads to rot.”

“You feel like you’ve got too many killers in your head to read the next one clearly,” Jack translated. “There are _ways _to sort you out. You can bring these men to justice.” 

_Ways_. The word made him want to spit the bitterness from his mouth. 

“Your talk with Doctor Lecter helped—” 

“Jack,” Will interrupted, fighting the way he’d bristled at the suggestion that _therapy might help_, exerting as much patience as he could. His skin felt as though it were on fire, and the winter wind froze him over only for his body heat to thaw and melt him all over. “I’ve got room for one. And you want it to be the one that matters.” He turned to look back at the body of Mr. Budish, once more illuminated from above. “I’ll consult for the Chesapeake Ripper and nobody else. I don’t care how strongly you and the rest of the team disagree, if my initial assessment doesn’t read a scene as his work, I’m not doing it.”

Jack’s frown was a whole-body expression. “You could be—”

But Will didn’t want to hear what he _could be. All that matters is who I am_. “It’s that or nothing, Jack,” he said, cutting him off. He felt the tension in Jack’s body for the entire time that the man stood there, ineffectually trying to stare him down; felt it fade to nothing as Jack left him there, standing alone in the barn. But he didn’t see him. 

Instead, Will’s eyes were on the body, watching as it lowered itself to the ground, flesh ripping around the hooks that held him aloft as he pulled away. 

_“I see what you are,” _a haunting voice murmured into his ear on the next gust of wind. Budish touched down on the barn floor, then crumpled forward onto his knees. His wings lowered around him. 

Will frowned. Elliot Budish did not bow down in supplication like this in his final days: he had risen and elevated himself. Made his own path to heaven. Still, the image moved something inside of him.

“What do you see?” Will whispered, once more transfixed. 

_“What is festering inside. I can bring it out of you. I will give you the majesty of your Becoming.”_

The voice grew more and more exotic, and in its foreignness, increasingly familiar. The sharp glint of a knife in his hands drew Will’s eyes, though Budish’s fingers were moving too clumsily to present any kind of threat, knife or no. 

“And who would you have me become?” Will asked, his whisper more reverent, echoing the way that Budish’s hands clasped together around the blade, as though in prayer. Will’s vision wavered. He reached up to wipe his forehead again and saw stars. 

But Budish did not answer him. Instead, he simply collapsed to the floor, a marionette cut from its strings. 

Will went down with him, the world fading to black. 

His day only got worse from there, of course. 

The jostling of the stretcher as they carted him into the back of the ambulance woke him. “Let me up,” he said, voice breaking as he strained against the straps. “Let me _up_.”

“He’s awake,” Alana’s voice called from outside the vehicle. The EMT wrestled with the belts, voice urging Will to sit still and calm down. Will’s breaths were labored, heavy things, that dropped his chest as though an anvil pressed it down. The second the straps released, he jumped off the stretcher, earning him a scolding from both Alana and the EMT.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing at his wrists, across his chest. “I don’t do well with restraints.”

Alana’s expression melted into something so sympathy-laden that Will had to look away. He found an oasis in the stony disappointment on Jack’s face. It didn’t last. “You’re going to the hospital,” he commanded. 

“I’m fine.”

“Will—” this from Alana, her voice so reasonable, so gently pleading.

“You lost consciousness. Do you remember if you hit your head?” The poor EMT tried desperately to do his job, ask orientation questions, gather information, but Will shoved his hands away with a hiss. 

He couldn’t handle anyone touching him just now. “I’m fine. I’m declining hospitalization,” he said to the EMT, scooting down the bench to get out of the ambulance. “I’m _fine_,” he repeated, cutting off Jack and Alana’s protests. 

They insisted, and he waved them off, standing on shaky legs before stumbling away toward Jack’s car. 

“You are not going anywhere,” Alana said, moving in front of him when she realized where his trajectory led. Anger made her blue eyes sparkle, brought a pretty color to her cheeks. “You need to go to the hospital.” 

“Profiler’s work is done here,” Will argued. “No reason to hang around.”

Alana and Jack exchanged a look, and eventually settled it that Alana would drive him home, and one of the uniforms would take his car back to him later in the afternoon. Will’s arguments that he could drive himself from Quantico got him nowhere. 

“It’s more than an hour from Quantico to Wolf Trap at this time of day, Will.” 

_She’s deemed me reckless._

She ignored his protests as she took his arm and marched him around to the passenger side of her car, even going so far as to open his door for him. He got in, but wouldn’t allow her to shut it, grabbing the handle on his way in to keep some semblance of independence.

Once inside the vehicle, he appreciated its cleanliness, the lingering traces of Alana’s feminine scent, and the view of her lovely profile. He could feel his heart beating, a steady lub-dub in his chest, at the prospect of three hours in a car together. 

_A chance to talk_, he decided. _To feel out my chances. _

It turned out to be closer to four, with traffic, but he slept through the majority of the ride home, waking only when she pulled up to his gate, kept padlocked shut. The sun sat low in the sky, making most of its journey to the horizon during Will’s nap, and out here in Wolf Trap, two o’clock in midwinter might as well be twilight. Alana’s eyes jumped from one “no trespassing” sign on his fence to the next, but she said nothing about it; he ducked out of the car and came around to her window to say his goodbyes.

“I’d drop you off at your door,” she said, “but the gate doesn’t lock itself, does it?”

“Not yet. I’ll be getting something automated eventually,” he said. Probably a lie. “Thanks for the ride.” He knew he should apologize for being so stubborn; the nap he’d taken had borne out her concerns, after all. “You wanna come in for a bit?”

This invitation, accompanied by a distant chorus of barking from inside his house, preceded immediate apprehension that she might accept. He still hadn’t mentioned that there were _seven_; the way her eyes turned to the house justified his rising panic. 

“How many dogs do you _have_?” she asked, looking at the window, where three canine heads were visible through the glass.

Will’s mouth popped open, but he hesitated before answering. “A few.”

Alana’s laugh, a good-natured thing, came in concert with the shaking of her head. “Thank you, but I have to get back. Report-writing, you know,” she shrugged. “Jack told me to tell you to come in on Monday for yours.” Her body turned back toward the steering wheel, though her eyes were on Will’s face; he could feel them trying to see through him as his own drifted down to look at her lips. 

_Kissable lips_.

“Promise me you’ll get yourself checked out if you’re not feeling well tomorrow,” she said, laying her hands primly at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel.

He agreed with a jerky nod.

“Goodnight, Will.”

“Goodnight, Alana.” He stepped back and stood there, outside in the cold, watching her turn the car and then progress down the lane. She waited for him to hop the gate, waited for him to start walking back to the house, before advancing to the intersection and starting her drive back to work.

On his couch now, a few hours after she left, he could see why she had been so concerned. He still sweated, feverish, skin covered in goosebumps though his body felt aflame. He _had_ passed out at a crime scene. In terms of optics, this made him look unwell. 

_And don’t forget the sleepwalking_, though she didn’t know about that. 

He hadn’t thought about it really, until now, but with the exception of the somnambulance he’d been through something like this at least once before. The first time came after he’d seen a handful of Lenny Marron’s crime scenes in New Orleans. The shivers, the sweating. It hit him worse the second time around; after Lenny stabbed him, he added insomnia to the list of symptoms.

Once out of Eldon’s care, the same sickness came again, though much, much milder. Gentler. Then again, Lenny had been a rude surprise, and Eldon a welcome one. At least, eventually.

_It’s the body’s way of purging the outsiders in my head_, he decided, pulling a blanket over himself even though he felt as though he were boiling alive. Sleepwalking was probably just a new symptom of the same disease. _It’s worse this time because there’s so many stuffed in there._

His words to Jack, back in Budish’s barn, echoed in his memory. _One will flourish. More than that leads to rot. _

His head lolled to the side, and the stretch in his neck alerted him to the fact that, aside from the occasional shiver, he had not moved since the moment he sat down. Alana would be on her way to Dr. Lecter’s house by now, if she hadn’t arrived already. He should have asked her to reiterate his apologies, asked her to smooth things over with Dr. Lecter on his behalf. But he hadn’t been thinking straight at the time. He’d been thinking about her coming into his house. About her kissable lips. 

Lids drifting shut, he pictured the laughter in her eyes as she asked about the dogs. The perfection of her face in profile, the gleaming dark hair cascading over her shoulder as she drove. The softness of her expression as she pressed him to take care of himself. Intelligent, kind, warm.

_Good_.

The best of humanity’s qualities, and all in one beautiful package. One moment he saw the afterimage of her radiant face, so lovely in the twilight, and the next he drowned in darkness.

-+-

Alana Bloom, illuminated by the pendant lighting overhead, looked quite lovely chopping chives for his garnish. She put the knife down to take a sip of his home brewed beer, and met his eyes over the lip of the bottle. He smiled at her. Her own _personal_ reserve, as she’d begun to request it specifically. She’d developed quite a taste for human blood, it seemed.

Hannibal examined the contents of the Dutch oven, prodding gently with a fork at the ossobuco within before replacing the lid. “A few minutes more,” he said. “Have you finished the chives?”

She hummed around her beer, passed behind him on her way to the sink. “What time are we expecting Jack?”

He inspected her work on the cutting board. Finely chopped though a little irregular. Still a significant improvement compared to when she had first begun acting as his sous-chef. He waited until the water stopped running at the sink before answering. “Should be any moment now.”

The ringing of the doorbell bore him out. “Would you mind greeting our guest?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she said, tossing him a teasing smile as she walked over to the door. “I’ll leave you to your finishing touches.”

After dressing the salad, he pulled the sides from the warming drawer, sprinkled some of the freshly cut chives over a log of chive butter he had made earlier in the day, and then pulled the Dutch oven off the stove. Transferring the ossobuco to its decorative tray took merely a moment with several quick flicks of the wrist. He checked over the dishes, tidily lined up on his serving cart, and then picked up the decanter of wine he’d set out on the counter—a full-bodied Barolo—and exited the kitchen to the dining room.

Jack Crawford stood there, in what Hannibal had privately dubbed his good suit, a broad smile on his face. “Doctor Lecter,” he said in greeting, and Hannibal set the decanter down before coming around to shake his hand. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“Jack, good to see you. And thank you for joining us, despite your busy schedule.”

“The timing couldn’t be better,” Jack said, returning Hannibal’s firm grip.

“Yes, Alana mentioned that you closed another case today. The Angel-Maker, hm?” He shot Alana another conspiratorial smile before offering Jack a glass of wine. “Have a seat, please,” he said, placing the wine in its designated spot at Jack’s place-setting at the table. “I’ll be just a moment with the food.”

A moment to wipe around the edges of the plates and to sprinkle a little finishing salt over the ossobuco before he wheeled the cart out into the dining room. “I elected to keep to a simpler fare—”

“By that, he means just one course,” Alana chimed in, brows raised in the way that they did when she teased.

“Two, actually. Of course, we have dessert,” he said this with a smile, crinkling up his eyes in a show of good humour. “But as I was saying, a more rustic fare, in celebration of Will Graham’s tastes, as he could not join us tonight.”

He’d been slighted any number of ways over the years; Will Graham’s initial refusal of his invitation to dinner, however, had felt the most injurious in recent memory. Such overt rudeness, so keen to antagonize. In those brief seconds before he his reply to Will’s text message, Hannibal had felt his face go near incandescent with rage.

But then.

Will Graham found a way to soothe his anger, to calm his temper, with the most delightful, most unexpected rejoinder: _A different mind. Hopefully my own._ What a fascinating creature, Will Graham.

Not long after this exchange, Jack revealed that Will had submitted a report in excess of ten pages on the Gideon case, which Will had called ‘cut and dry’ not a handful of days before. So it had been Gideon’s mental space that he occupied when responding to Hannibal’s invitation. Upon rereading the text messages, he could certainly hear them in Gideon’s irreverent tones. He forgave Will Graham of his rudeness, for the most part, after this. His apology last night, delivered in a meek tone Hannibal had yet to hear from him, took care of the rest. 

All forgiven between them, Hannibal renewed his invitation to dinner this morning; he looked forward to more stimulating conversation in Will Graham’s company.

Which he would not get to enjoy tonight.

“Ossobuco with braised vegetables in white wine, delicata squash with cranberry agrodolce, radicchio and plum salad. A little family-style dining.” He transferred the last of the dishes from the tray to the table. “Jack,” he said, gesturing that he be the first to serve himself.

“Thank you. This looks delicious.” Jack picked up the tongs and selected one of the larger cuts of veal, glancing up as he did so. “Will did ask me to convey his regrets that he couldn’t come,” he said. Hannibal doubted these were Will’s _exact_ words. Perhaps, ‘apologize for me,’ if he truly had said anything at all.

“I understand that this case was quite troubling for him. Difficult to sink into, as it were.”

“Well,” Alana agreed, reaching for the serving spoons next to the salad. “He was having some difficulty organizing his thoughts about it, as you know,” she sighed. “I think we must have made it harder for him, leaning so hard on the Ripper theory.” This said with a quick glance at Jack, full of censure.

“But it has turned out that the Chesapeake Ripper and the Angel-Maker are not, in fact, one and the same?”

Jack hummed in agreement. “We caught one. We’ll catch the other.” He lifted his glass, a little toast.

_‘The other’._

“And with your help, I’m hoping, Doctor.” This, a reference to Jack’s request that he formalize his role as consultant. Hannibal had yet to decide, though he leaned strongly toward agreement. 

But those were not the words that held Hannibal’s attention. Had Jack really called him ‘_the other_’? Hannibal suppressed the downturn of his lips, presented a neutral face to Alana. “Will must have been quite content to bring another killer to justice.”

“Justice,” she sighed. “We weren’t quite quick enough for that.” This received a grunt from Jack; no agreement there. “If anything, he seemed happy to have done with the whole case. After the day he had,” Alana shook her head, and this time Jack’s lips twisted thoughtfully, his head bounced on a nod.

_‘After the day he had.’_ How intriguing. _Whatever has occurred in the pursuit of the Angel-Maker?_ But before he could inquire about it, Alana spoke again.

“Well, he had quite a scare. But I won’t give anything away. I’m sure you’ll talk about it when you see him next week.”

_Oh?_

“Has he mentioned any specific plans?” he asked, wondering if Will had, like a wayward teenager, used Hannibal as an excuse to get out of a social engagement and then forgotten to inform him that he’d been implicated in the cover story. 

“Well, no,” Alana said, glancing up at him as Jack passed her the tongs for the veal. “But you meet on Thursday nights, don’t you?”

Hannibal waited for her to serve herself, then took the tongs when she passed them over, selected his own piece of meat and then loaded a tender bite onto his fork. “Hm.” He considered how to answer as he brought the morsel to his mouth, chewed and savored it—buttery soft, sumptuous, just the right amount of salt. “While he has visited my office on Thursday nights with some regularity, that is purely incidental.” He set his fork and knife down on the edges of his dish and looked Alana directly in the eye. She appeared puzzled, her blue eyes wide, her brow drawn slightly. “If you meant to imply that he is my patient, I can assure you that he is not.”

“I was under the same impression, I admit,” chimed in Jack.

“We have conversations,” Hannibal clarified, cutting another piece from the ossobuco. “But he is not under my care.”

The puzzlement in Alana’s expression melted to something briefly rather fierce, before she replaced it with a stiff neutrality. Something had upset her.

“Either way, whatever you talk about has been helpful, Doctor Lecter,” said Jack. He picked up his wine and swirled it around in his glass. “When he left the office yesterday, he couldn’t put a single thought into words. This morning, he came in like new. Clear-headed.” Something in the way he said this alerted Hannibal that Jack didn’t find the development _entirely_ satisfactory, though it must have sufficed regardless, as he then tipped his glass in Hannibal’s direction. “I think we can thank you for that.”

Alana pushed her salad around on her plate, said nothing at all.

“Well. Another case closed,” Hannibal said, raising his glass as well. “I’d say that calls for a toast.”

A hearty cheer from one side of the table, a weak smile from the other. By the end of the dinner, however, Alana’s usual good mood had returned, laughing easily, engaging in the conversation, though he noted a look off into the distance every so often, and a tension in her jaw here or there. He would have asked what upset her—and it seemed likely that it revolved around the unofficial capacity in which he had been meeting with Will—but he could not afford to prolong their evening overmuch.

He had work yet to do.

Some cleaning up, so to speak. 

The little gift he left at Miss Lounds’ front door had been poorly timed. He checked TattleCrime that morning, as per usual, to see her most recent publication: _Ripper Playing God, Making Angels: Crime Scene Preview. _Yet _another_ misattribution. The work of a few moments to print, shred, and include this article along with the others would have been better spent reconsidering delivering the gift at all. 

_Too rash,_ he chided himself. Always, he had prided himself on his patience. But Freddie’s repeated offences pricked at his pride and the lingering second-hand anger on Will Graham’s behalf had made him overeager. 

He had acted too soon.

The shaming mask, so detailed and fine, he had felt particularly proud of. He had not created any works for public consumption in quite some years, after all, so a great deal of time and effort went into its creation. He had the distinct pleasure of receiving Will Graham’s appreciation, his keen insight. If nothing else, this justified Hannibal’s precipitous action in delivering it, even though his pleasure diminished greatly in light of Will’s announcement that the FBI’s going theory gave the credit for _even this_, such delicate work, to the Angel-Maker.

The assumption stung, of course, and he wanted nothing more than to correct it. But Hannibal would not make the same mistake twice. He would bide his time, as he always had before. He would wait for his retribution. The impact of a Ripper kill would be diluted after the bodies that the Angel-Maker had strewn about; such _sloppy_ work.

In a field with so much competition, timing mattered. 

This would be unfortunate news for Mr. Fiorello, however; he had better deliver it sooner than later.

Once Alana and Jack left—Jack with a promise to be in touch soon about establishing a more long-term arrangement for his consultancy—and once the dining room and kitchen were tidied and cleaned, returned to their previous pristine state, Hannibal hung up his apron and made his way to the cellar. 

“Mr. Fiorello,” he said, pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs.

Certainly not the most welcoming part of his home; an unfortunate consequence of keeping this a clean room, as it tended to preclude warmth or comfort. In some sense, this felt more appropriate, more to the purpose. Though Mr. Fiorello was his guest for the time being, he was not a welcome one.

The man in question cowered in the corner, covering his nudity and the stubs of his recently amputated legs, making incomprehensible attempts at speech through chapped lips and tongue-less mouth. Hannibal had once had grand plans for Mr. Fiorello, but now that he had decided on postponement of his next tableau, those designs no longer applied.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience,” he said, reaching for one of his tailored plastic suits, kept tucked away in a narrow closet just to the left of the staircase. Mr. Fiorello’s whimpering and wailing grew in volume and raised in pitch, his body thrashed uselessly about. Hannibal dressed, then watched him in silence until he calmed himself. “As I said, I apologize for the inconvenience, but it appears that our plans have changed. You have been most patient, but I am no longer in need of your services.” He had to work to hide the laughter from his voice.

Mr. Fiorello, a serviceman for the heating and cooling company that Hannibal had retained several years prior, had a history of being in excess of three hours late to his appointments, and at times cancelling without alerting his clients of his pending absence. His penchant for wasting the valuable time of the ones who needed such a crucial service as air conditioner repair—Baltimore summers, one must note, could be rather hellish—gave this postponement a little poetic justice.

“I will not waste your valuable time,” he added, slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves. “I _do_ hold time precious.” This assurance, uttered as he picked up the scalpel from the instrument tray he left situated in the corner of the room to tease and torment his visitor.

A series of garbled noises left Mr. Fiorello’s mouth, and he scuttled, cockroach-like, as far into the corner as he could manage. Even from here, Hannibal could see him shaking, could smell the rancid over-ripeness of his fear. A frown tilted his lips. The fear would spoil the meat. Best to conclude this business quickly, before the release of adrenaline and cortisol tainted him irredeemably.

Normally, he would employ methods to reduce the odds of such an outcome. But he did not want to wait to administer the medications, wait for them to take their course. He would give himself this, this one outlet for his newly budding impatience.

Standing behind his prey, he gripped his weapon. Skin parted under the scalpel smoothly, the blade impeccably sharp. The blood spray as Hannibal slit Mr. Fiorello’s throat reached the opposite wall, spattering it with an almost impressionist touch. The floor, by contrast, looked distinctly Pollock in style. More satisfying than either: the nearly animalistic gurgling that came from his mouth, incomprehensible for lack of a tongue, and yet so clear in its message.

Fear, disbelief, pain. Mr. Fiorello’s struggles had winded him, and a somewhat discordant whine came through his vocal folds as a result. The whine, so piteous, increased the urgency in those vocalizations. Hannibal basked in them, remained unmoving as they echoed throughout his cavernous basement. His surgical suite. He stood perfectly still until it faded from his ears, until the blood spatter dripped down the wall to reach the floor.

With a sense of profound satisfaction, he strung up his porker and then set up his workspace during the twenty or so minutes he left it hanging, bleeding out. The rivulets of blood streamed steadily, little rivers coursing across the cement toward the drain.

Nothing his power washer wouldn’t fix. But his priority, of course, was to butcher the meat. Mr. Fiorello had provided some excellent ossobuco. The man’s slightly paunchy belly would yield a nice bacon. Then there were the larger cuts to consider, and the marrow, and the offal. When not utilizing his livestock for his tableaux, he would find a use for every last little bit except the hair. Breaking down a pig of this size would take time and effort, but Hannibal approached it with a contentment and relish, and with copious energy.

He unlocked the restraints and moved the body on top of his work table. Years ago, he’d been called an artist by his colleagues in surgery. He did not mind the comparison; certainly, surgical work could not be classed as excellent without an element of artistry. But that artistry could not be maintained without technical skill, and like his scalpels, he kept his skills sharp.

Said blade in hand, he made his initial cuts. Good practice dictated that he begin with the removal of the bacteria-laden parts of the animal, to reduce the risk of contamination. He cut around the anus, and Mr. Fiorello’s flesh yielded readily, blood welling up out of the incision. Hannibal tilted his head a little to examine his work as he tied off the end of the colon. The skin on this pig appeared truly porcine; thick, with raised bumps, and inelastic when compared to a normal human counterpart. A few more careful cuts to open the abdomen, through which he pulled the colon before dropping it into a bucket for cleaning.

_“A sounder of pigs. That’s—that’s how he sees them_.”

Hannibal paused mid-dissection. For all that he had never seen a full-scale Chesapeake Ripper murder tableau in person, Will Graham had quite a keen understanding of the Ripper’s way of thinking.

_“The Ripper’s kills are a study in control. He’s methodical. Meticulous. Every choice has a brutal elegance.”_

Rib spreaders opened up the pig’s chest cavity, showing off the prizes inside. Hannibal excised the lungs and liver first before turning to the heart.

_“He has a clear vision. Something he wants to communicate to his audience.”_

A trickle of leftover blood poured from the aorta when he sliced through them, pooling in the hole where the heart used to be, and levelling to a compact reddened mirror. Heart, kidneys, pancreas, removed and each placed into their own Tupperware situated in a hotel pan filled with ice. 

The head severed easily enough. With a clamp holding it in place, Hannibal hefted his bone saw.

_“He has a sense of humor.”_

Hannibal heard Will Graham’s voice flit through his own skull as he sawed the top off of Mr. Fiorello’s, so that he might remove the brain. His fingers squeezed tightly on the bone saw, his lips ticking downward. Will Graham’s words had been words of praise, ones of which Hannibal would normally feel himself deserving.

And yet he could not derive his usual pleasure at Will’s delightful compliments. For, despite his meticulous control, he had been seized by and given into an impatience, an eagerness to act, so outside his usual behaviour it led to the precipitous delivery of Freddie Lounds’ chastisement.

He had not believed that the FBI would follow Freddie in attributing the mask to the Angel-Maker. There were so many _differences_; it baffled the mind. Then again, had he not been perfectly aware of Jack’s obsession with the Ripper? Of course, the FBI would fail to catch on.

Will, however, showed an insight that satisfied Hannibal’s expectations. He read the scene and interpreted it correctly, and had rather a lot to say on the subject. As Hannibal set down the saw, he replayed the way the conversation changed when it turned to the articles. Will glossed right over them; a surprise. Perhaps he ought to have expected this: he reminded himself of Will’s penchant for obfuscation regarding anything to do with Eldon Stammets. The inclusion of the article had been on Will’s behalf, but Will would not make that connection. He did not know the Ripper well enough yet, to see through his designs.

Hannibal lifted Mr. Fiorello’s skull cap, peeled back the meninges and, with a little snipping to separate the nerve fibers, plucked the brain from within. Just under three pounds, to his estimation. At a glance, an average male brain. And yet, within this mushy, inert organ, lay the center of Mr. Fiorello’s cognition. The source of his rudeness. 

“His soul,” Hannibal mused aloud, setting the brain into its own container in the ice-bath bucket alongside the other offal. 

What would Will’s fascinating mind look like, removed from the confines of his skull? What shape would the man’s various secrets take, in the gyri and sulci of his brain? 

Hannibal had yet to decide what to do about Will Graham. So many possible paths for the misanthropic empath to stumble down, with Hannibal to nudge him along. Will’s tendency to concealment on the subject of Stammets felt promising, but as Hannibal did not yet possess a complete picture of Will’s potential... 

He would eschew any decision-making until Will’s confidences had been earned. _After last night’s visit_, he thought, casting his eyes over the carcass on his work table,_ I have every reason for hope._

Approximately an hour’s worth of work remained to finish the processing of the body. He must wash out the insides to flush out the fine hairs that would have followed the blade as he sliced through the skin, then hang it in the walk-in fridge. Then he must clean and store the organ meat, and clean and process the colon and stomach for sausage casings and tripe. The cleaning and sterilization of the room, of course, would take much longer.

“Perhaps I ought to make some bratwurst,” he mused, reaching for the nozzle of the hose, coiled up against the wall. 

If he ended up working for Jack again, odds were that Will Graham would be sitting in his office again when Thursday night came around. A little snack with their wine would whet his appetite. 

He might persuade Will yet, to take a seat at his table.

-+-

> **[[It takes one to catch one!! Will Graham’s Dark Past Discovered!!]]**
> 
> Readers, if you’re a regular reader of TattleCrime, you will recall that this reporter has always had reservations about the hiring of Will Graham, kidnapping victim of Eldon Stammets, as profiling consultant at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Here at TattleCrime we pride ourselves on getting you the full story, and this is one that will shock you.
> 
> Prior to his retirement and later employment at the FBI, Will Graham worked in New Orleans. A homicide detective with a rather unremarkable career, in the sense that there was little to say about it, positive or negative. Multiple sources, however, have plenty to remark on regarding their former coworker. 
> 
> “He was always pretty quiet. The creepy kind of quiet,” says Benjamin Hartie, fellow detective and occasional partner to Graham. “He would make connections that nobody else would see. He’d talk to himself sometimes, under his breath. Stare for a long time then close his eyes and go really still.” Understandably unsettling behavior at the site of a homicide.
> 
> Hartie is not alone in describing his former co-worker as ‘creepy”. “Nothing special about him, just one of those obsessed weirdos. Got some traction in homicide, where he could put the weird to work, but damn, that guy really just gave you the creeps you know?” When asked to clarify what Will Graham was ‘obsessed’ with, Jean Poulier said, “The killers. Once he started up in homicide, Graham just got in so deep, so obsessed with the killers. Like he could really put himself in their place. You could ignore it, kind of, until the Crocodile case. That did something to him, man.”
> 
> As the Crocodile Murders pre-date the founding of TattleCrime, here’s an overview: The Crocodile Murders of New Orleans refers to a series of killings spanning eight months from February to October of 2007, counting a total of fourteen victims, although only three of those crimes were attributed to The Crocodile, a Leonard ‘Lenny’ Marron, initially. Named ‘The Crocodile’ for the pattern of stab-wounds left on the flesh, which bore a passing resemblance to the tooth marks left by crocodile bites, Marron was caught thanks to an anonymous tip called in to the FBI, connecting the other eleven vitims and naming him directly as a suspect. The FBI were able to close a case in one night that had stumped the local authorities for months.
> 
> The most interesting details of the case follow here: The first official on the scene of the inaugural Crocodile murder? Will Graham. Eight months later, Marron was caught after having dragged a off-duty detective from his vehicle, into an abandoned shack. The detective was stabbed, and though he had a gun in his hands, he did not shoot. Who was this detective? None other than Will Graham. Marron and Graham were in the shack alone together for an estimated fifteen minutes before the FBI closed in. Graham retired from police work shortly after.
> 
> “Graham sat in the car blubbering like a baby after the first one,” says another source close to the investigation who asked to remain anonymous. “A real panic attack. It’s not like it was the first murder he’d ever seen, you know? I mean, they’re hard on all of us. It’s awful seeing people who have died in such terrible ways. But keep your shit together man, you’re a professional.”
> 
> The same source comments on Will Graham’s disposition after his rescue by the FBI: “Marron had him pinned down on the floor, knife was still in his shoulder, you know. Blood everywhere. Tap, tap, Marron went down, and Will was just covered in [the blood]. He sat up real slow, medics took him off the scene. And he just sat there, still as a stone. Didn’t move. Couldn’t talk. Had to pry the gun from his fingers. Shock, you know?” Graham had his gun fixed on Marron, but still ended up stabbed, and did not shoot. “Whole career, never discharged a weapon in the line of duty. Not even when he took a knife to the shoulder.”
> 
> Graham rode out his medical leave and then retired. He lived with his father on and off, and when his father “passed away”, he moved to Northern Virginia to live in general seclusion, working odd jobs as a mechanic. Four years later, he ends up kidnapped yet again, by Eldon Stammets, Mushroom Man, just in time for another daring FBI rescue.
> 
> This reporter has been held at gunpoint by Mr. Graham numerous times, and he has never seemed hesitant to shoot. My source says that he always believed Graham to be “too much of a [expletive] to pull the trigger.” That he was too fearful, too cowardly. I would like to posit a different perspective: Will Graham didn’t shoot because he _did not want to_. He did not escape Eldon Stammets because he _did not want to_.
> 
> Will Graham has an affinity for killers. He can make connections nobody else can see, he can think like them. And they certainly seem to have no lack of love for him. Graham has been seen in the company of noted psychiatrists, Doctors Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom, and while both deny that he is currently under their care, it is unusual for the FBI to utilize more than one profiler on the comparatively minor cases that Will Graham has been associated with. It is this reporter’s suspicion that aside from their consultancy as profilers, Dr. Lecter and Dr. Bloom have been on-boarded in an additional capacity, as Graham’s handlers.
> 
> Why?
> 
> Because the FBI isn’t just hunting psychopaths, they’re head-hunting them, too, offering competitive pay and benefits in the hopes of using one demented mind to catch another. Someone needs to look into the FBI’s hiring practices. An interesting prospect, though outside the scope of this reporter’s work.
> 
> What is your opinion, readers? Is Will Graham an incredibly unlucky man, no more than a victim? Or is this a mere façade, meant to hide that he is one of the very monsters that he seems so eager to catch? 
> 
> Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and to comment below with your thoughts and opinions!

-+-

Will Graham toggled off his phone screen and tossed it across the room onto his mattress. It bounced off and clattered, unseen, on the hardwood floor beneath the bed.

_Baseless. Tasteless_.

He knew that Freddie Lounds had nothing, and this article proved it. She’d been _fishing_, nothing more. He breathed easier, but the tension had yet to fade from his neck and shoulders, his head still pounded so hard that the most miniscule movements made him feel as though he might explode. 

He’d woken up on his living room couch, phone on one side of him, Winston on the other, though he could swear that he had fallen asleep in the comfort of his bed. Winston’s cold snout woke him when he pressed it to Will’s cheek, hot dog-breath gusting onto the wet imprint it left behind. Once awake he realized that his throat hurt something awful; he must have been screaming. The rest of the dogs seemed agitated enough.

Screaming. He couldn’t remember his dreams.

He shoved his hands into his hair, fingers gripping onto his sweating scalp, palms pressing into his temples, trying to relieve the pressure of his headache. Trapping a deep breath in his chest, he got to his feet and dragged himself to the kitchen. He’d left a bottle of aspirin in easy reach on his counter, far enough back to be safe from the dogs. His hands shook as he uncapped the bottle, jostling a few tablets out onto the counter without meaning to. He didn’t bother to put them back in, just grabbed the four of them and downed them dry.

It took him a few breaths before he gathered the energy to open the fridge and grab a bottle of water from within it. Part of the headache must be dehydration. He hadn’t had any water since before he’d left for Quantico. For a moment he debated whether to return to the couch or the bed.

The couch had the advantage of snuggling with his dogs; they weren’t allowed on the bed. But the prospect of their emotional comfort lost against the knowledge that he’d wake with a crick in his neck and an ache in his back that would make his already intolerable headache all the worse. On the other hand, what were the odds that he would fall back asleep at this point?

Still, he ended up heading toward his mattress after making a pitstop to scrounge his phone out from underneath the bed. He laid atop his sheets, scrolled through headlines for a while before clasping his hands over his chest, phone snug under his palms. He sighed into the darkness of the room, waiting for the bright spots left from the back-lit screen to disappear from his vision.

Eventually, his eyes adjusted to the dark, his dresser the first object that came into relief. His mind jumped immediately to the little note sitting inside his underwear drawer.

Any calm that remained in his body vaporized, steaming into the air.

_Eldon._

_Eldon, Eldon_.

_How could I have forgotten about Eldon_?

One thing and then another. Devon Silvestri’s botched organ harvesting. The Ripper’s Shaming Mask. Budish’s angels. Alana’s kissable lips. _How could I have forgotten about Eldon_? He scrambled out of bed and his fingers found the note with a minimum of effort.

“Shit,” he spat, when he realized that he hadn’t brought his phone over with him. Back to bed he went. For a moment, a paralyzing fear overcame him. What should he say? How should he say it? He glanced at his clock. Past two in the morning. Would he even be awake?

And then he remembered whose number he held in his hands. Will knew what Matthew Brown wanted from him, and neither blood nor extortion numbered on that list.

Brown, whether psychopath or serial killer, presented no threat to him. 

_[You said you have something for me_], he texted, knowing how Matthew would receive this. He could perfectly picture the soft line drawn between nose and lip deepening as one corner of his mouth raised in a smirk. The way his dark eyes would glitter in the light of his phone screen. He would think, _Yeah, I’ve got something for ya_, but would forgo the flirtation to avoid offending Will, to keep the line of communication open.

_[I do_], came the return text. In retrospect, it did not surprise Will in the least that Brown was awake. [_You been busy huh_], read the next one. A third text came in. [_We can meet next week_]. Then: [_Tuesday?_]. And one more. [_Your place or mine?_]

Will couldn’t help the comparison between this conversational style of texting, with its loose grammar and near absent punctuation, to the structured formality, so like a proper letter, from Dr. Lecter. The presumption, though, they had in common.

_Am I really comparing Dr. Lecter to a—_

[_Or a neutral third location?_]

An amused huff puffed from his lips as he read this. [_Let’s go with a neutral third_], he wrote. The negotiations that followed were satisfyingly brief, and Brown showed perfect restraint, not trying to draw Will into conversation after they had settled on a time and location: Tuesday, 4 PM, at Jackpot, a dive bar in DC not far from the Judiciary Square station on the metro’s red line. Brown worked a series of overnight shifts this week and wouldn’t be free until then. 

Will doubted Dr. Lecter’s dinner had been anything like the greasy food and cheap beer a dive bar would serve. He probably laid down ten forks and more spoons than Will would know what to do with, with a ridiculous number of courses and foods that one must smile and call delicious, all the while being glad that they came in miniscule portions. Alana would navigate the hoity-toity dinner with poise and elegance, of course. Just as she’d probably be perfectly at home with deep-fried and over-salted pub fare.

Will could imagine her stealing a French fry, laughter in her eyes as she popped it between her _kissable lips_.

As he drifted off back to sleep, he expected that he’d dream of them, rosy and soft, beneath his own. Instead, he dreamed of the fifteen minutes he spent with Lenny Marron, all those years ago, and the searing pain of the Crocodile’s knife. He dreamed of blue and red lights casting shadows through the windows of the shack, the relief that came with knowing his rescue was imminent. 

And then he dreamed of Dr. Lecter, settling him in the back of an ambulance. With sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair falling over his forehead, he mended Will’s broken shoulder, picked up the pieces of his crumbling body, and stitched them all back together again.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated end-note (added 1/10). Thank you for reading, as always! A bit of a wait for this chapter, but we're back to regular update schedule as of now. Next one should be up on 1/24, sometime in the evening!


	10. Interlude: Fifteen Minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter a week early!  
CW: Creepy murderers being creepy murderers.
> 
> Approximately an 11-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Ten

Interlude

Fifteen Minutes.

-+-

Will fidgeted in the driver’s seat of his squad car, ran his hands over his five o’clock shadow. He’d been parked here for almost four minutes, paralyzed by indecision. _To get out, or not to get out. _

He hefted the radio in his hand, thumb hovering over the talk button, lips parted as though preparing to speak. But the words stayed trapped in his throat. When he called the tip into the FBI a few days ago, he didn’t waffle this much; then again, what was really on the line when he made that call? His job, _maybe_. 

Now though… his _life_ depended on this. Probably. 

He set the radio back down, wiped the sweat from his brow, the back of his neck. Every year he thought this might be the one where his body acclimated to the sticky Louisiana summers, hot and so humid he might as well be swimming through the air, but despite having lived here for the majority of his life, he never did. The baby powder industry could probably subsist off of his financial support alone. 

He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, and as his legs tensed to raise his bottom off the cheap plastic faux-leather, the fabric of his pants, nearly sodden, stuck to his skin. He groaned, wiped at his brow once more. 

Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention away from the misery of the heat, but when he looked out his side window, everything sat perfectly still. _My imagination?_ He took a breath, staring at his surroundings, trying to detect any movement. 

A minute ticked by, and then another. Nothing.

_Ugh._ He lifted his glasses and wiped droplets from the skin on his cheekbones. _Just do it, Graham_. 

This time, his thumb pressed down on the talk button. He radioed in. The dispatcher that answered him he knew by name, thankfully. “Gloria, I’m sitting outside an abandoned shack here. Cross streets…” he paused to make it sound like he was looking for them, “Paulette and Bonvenue. Requesting backu—”

He never managed to finish. 

The car door yanked open and a rough hand grabbed him by his shirt collar, pulling him out of the car. His head struck the pavement on the way down; with the impact, his fingers released the radio. It sprang back inside the vehicle to dangle from its coiled wire down next to the gas pedal. Dimly, he registered Gloria trying to reestablish contact, to make sense of whatever noise had made it through the line, but his vision darkened and brightened again, little stars exploding behind his eyelids. He acknowledged the scrape of his skin against the pavement, though the sensation felt distant—an intellectual pain, unlinked from his body. When his vision cleared and his mind and body reconnected, he was inside the abandoned shack, and Lenny Marron sat straddling his waist. 

“You gonna ask me who I am?” he hissed, his voice low and sibilant in the darkness. Will had known the identity of his captor the second the hand touched him to drag him from the car. If he hadn’t recognized him then, though, the way his eyes flashed a reflective yellow now, so reptilian, would have told him everything he needed to know. 

“No,” Will answered, his voice wheezing, the solid weight of Lenny Marron on top of him impairing his ability to draw a complete breath. “I know who you are.”

“And _I_ know who _you_ are, Will Graham.” A glint from the shadows preceded the sensation of hot, rough skin tapping against his cheek. “We been keepin’ an eye on each other for a while now, hmm?”

They had. Lenny knew Will longer, of course; it took Will time to put the pieces together, to figure out who he was. But he had, eventually. 

Two murders ago. 

He’d wanted to act faster. _Not fast enough._

The inside of the shack started to take shape in the darkness, as his eyes adjusted to the light. He could make out the craggy angles of Lenny Marron’s face. He’d spent so many hours staring at the three mugshots from Lenny’s previous arrests, he knew it intimately by now. None of them had captured the man’s charisma, however. It still oozed from him, even as he sat over Will, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face and neck, staining the neckline of his white tank top. 

“I saw you, at the first one,” Lenny went on, apparently not needing a confirmation. “Saw how it _shook you_.” He let out a breathy laugh, seeing Will’s absence of resistance, and reached behind himself to his leg. Will heard the telltale sound of metal sliding against leather, and sucked in an anticipatory breath. “Thought you’d quit. But you fell in love instead, dincha?”

_No_, Will thought, and he must have spoken it aloud because Lenny’s grin grew sharper. The brutality had scared him after the first one. But after that… “Not in love,” Will clarified. “I just needed to know. Had to see.”

“_You_?” Lenny laughed then. “Man who never looks at nobody? _You_ needed to see.”

Will licked his lips, conscious that Lenny had a weapon. He was too big, too bulky to try and dislodge without Will opening himself up to injury. _Not that I’ll get out of this clean_, Will decided, riveted on the gleam in Lenny’s eye. “I read people. And most don’t have anything interesting to say.” He licked his lips again. While true, this had nothing to do with his obsessive chase for Lenny over the last few months. 

“You know, you got a nice way of talkin’,” Lenny said, as though Will’s words had skated by him. The hand pressing on Will’s chest came up to touch Will’s cheek. “A nice face too. Made the watchin’ fun.”

He couldn’t help the disbelieving huff that escaped his parted lips. “What the hell does that matter?” he asked. The Crocodile’s victims were chosen not based on any physical attributes; it had made linking some of the murders difficult at first. The cases he’d worked had been cut and dry, crimes of passion where motive and opportunity met and burst like fireworks. Bodies left where they had dropped, evidence covered up, but never well enough. Lenny had something those killers didn’t. 

A _design_. 

He picked his victims based on the content of their character. Their cowardice. 

His eyes flitted down to the hand still trailing over his cheek, the grit-darkened crescents of the nails making them disappear into the darkness. “You don’t give a shit about appearances.”

With a tilt of his head, Lenny appeared to consider this assertion. “You ain’t wrong,” he conceded after a while. “‘Least, far as the vermin I kill. You one of them, Will?”

Will took a moment to study Lenny before answering. Say ‘no’ too quickly and Lenny might kill him out of spite. _Then again, maybe not—_they’d been watching each other for a while. He had too much _interest_ in Will. Will was interested too. _But not in the same thing,_ he reminded himself, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs that had begun gathering inside his skull. 

He cleared his throat, trying for conviction when he answered. “No.”

“No. ‘Course you ain’t. I wouldn’a let you get this close to me if you were. Don’t play with my food.” He paused, pressed his finger against Will’s cheek to jab it against his gumline. “‘Least, not much.” 

Will’s legs were starting to go numb; wallet still in his pocket, gun holster digging into his hip, his nerves tingled. He could reach for the gun, but with Lenny’s leg clamped tight alongside him, he wouldn’t be able to get to it unnoticed. He must have tensed, though, because Lenny’s eyes snapped to Will’s hands, then to where his leg pinned the gun between them. 

“Ah, see,” Leny said, leaning down a little, so that his hot breath gusted against the sweat droplets rising on Will’s face and neck. It smelled of stale smoke; Will’s nose wrinkled, he tried to draw back. “That’s why you ain’t like them.” His hand pulled away from Will’s cheek and grabbed one of Will’s wrists, where it lay motionless on the floor. He guided Will’s hand to the holster. “Vermin’s prey animals,” he said. “Not you, Will.”

A frisson of adrenaline, or maybe excitement, coursed through him when the pads of his fingers touched the leather and the cool polymer of the 9 mm’s grip. Lenny unlatched the holster before closing around Will’s hand again, pressing his fingers to the grip. Together, they pulled the gun free, brought it up into the space between them. Will’s other hand came up, and with both of them on the weapon, he pressed the muzzle tight against Lenny’s belly. 

The wet fabric of Lenny’s tank top caught on the muzzle, but Lenny didn’t bother with that. He squeezed around Will’s hands, gave them a reassuring pat. “Not prey,” he repeated. “There’s somethin’ sharp inside you, too. Wants to cut.” He popped the ‘t’, brought his hand back up to Will’s cheek. His skin, now even hotter to the touch, burned Will like a brand; his calloused, grimy fingers wrapped around Will’s jaw to the other side, squeezing his cheeks in, forcing Will’s lips into a pucker. “Better?”

All the different parts of Will’s body felt disconnected. He shook his head to try and dislodge Lenny’s hand, but the man’s grip stayed firm, unmoving. Will only belated realized that maybe nudging Lenny in the stomach with his gun might prove more effective. He tightened his fingers on the grip, threaded his index finger through the trigger guard to rest against the trigger. 

“You kept lookin’ for me,” Lenny said, face catching the light for the first time. A ravening madness gleamed in his eyes, much wilder than the calm words coming from his mouth. “‘Cause you saw the sharp thing inside me. And you recognized the one inside you.” 

Will could breathe, but not speak. Not with the gun in his hands. Not with Lenny’s hand squeezing down on either side of his face, or Lenny’s knife finally coming into his line of sight, stopping just over his shoulder. _Coward_, he spat at himself. _You one of Lenny’s prey? _

He sucked in a breath. _Squeeze the trigger, Will._

Lenny dug the point against Will’s shirt, pressed the fabric against skin, so that the wicked tip of that blade pricked against him. “I woke you up to who you are. To who you can _become_.” 

Lenny’s torso drew closer; Will’s hands tightened on the gun, grip trembling from the tension of his hold. He wanted to fire. He _would_. 

_Just…_

_Just shoot him! _he commanded himself, but the words held no strength. How could they, when he lay looking up at Lenny and knowing, _seeing_, the truth of who and what he was? 

Still, he found it in himself to squeeze the grip and nudge the gun up toward Lenny’s belly. But Lenny didn’t even flinch, didn’t even seem to notice. “_I_ gave you that, Will.” 

Lenny’s grip slackened enough that Will managed to speak again, and his voice creaked, wound so taut. “Should I thank you?”

A rough, derisive laugh in response. “Lemme tell ya what you _will _do,” he said instead, face now hovering right above Will’s, eyes brilliant with the crazed promise brimming over in him. Will had not felt fear yet, but now, with nowhere to look but Lenny’s eyes, he finally felt its frigid clutches closing around his heart. All at once, the stifling room became ice cold, and the sweat froze on his skin. 

“You gon’ leave here a changed man, Will Graham.” Lenny said, conviction is voice, as though he could say the words and that alone would _make it so_. Will, plummeting into the abyss, the darkness in Lenny’s eyes, believed him. “You gon’ head back out into the world, and you gon’ feel that knife inside of you. Know it’s there, pretend it’s not. Might take months, maybe years. But you ain’t never gonna forget it’s there.” 

Lenny jabbed the knife forward. Fabric gave way first, and then skin. “Ah!” Will cried, stifling the moan behind his teeth, trying to focus not on the pain, but on the welling blood that heated the frigid surface of his flesh. Lenny reveled in the sound, his breaths puffing faster.

“Like a wound,” he said, leaning further down, whispering directly into Will’s ear, “It’s gon’ fester. Spread out, grow deeper. Consume you whole. And when it whispers its sweet urges in your ear, you gon’ listen, ‘cause you won’t hear nothin’ else.” 

The knife pressed in further, and the gun jerked in Will’s hands. His finger had slipped from the trigger, wrapped uselessly around the grip. He gritted his teeth to suppress the sound of his pain, but the silenced whimper that vibrated his throat seemed to spur Lenny on, to excite him further. Will could feel the man’s murderous smile pressing against his own cheek, the rough stubble sandpapering against him as it moved. 

“You gon’ kill someone, Will. You gon’ kill someone, and you gon’ love it.” He sucked in a breath, his expanded chest wall pressing down on Will’s, smothering him from all sides. “And when you do, you gon’ think of me. ‘Cause _I_ gave that to you.” He snickered, a vile sound. “_I_ did.” 

Will’s eyes popped open then—when had he closed them?—to see the wash of red and blue lights coming in through the window. He didn’t move, couldn’t bear to dispel the hope that those lights were real, that his hopes weren’t deceiving him. 

“You _will _do it,” Lenny promised. 

“Yes,” Will answered, automatically, still somewhat under Lenny’s thrall, though the hope of escape grew brighter with the nearing of those lights. 

Lenny yanked the knife out of Will’s shoulder, and Will saw with a sense of confounded disbelief that blood marked the knife no more than a centimeter up the blade. Weapon now pressed to his palm with his thumb, Lenny patted Will’s cheek, smearing it with blood with every touch. “Good.”. 

With the promise extracted, Lenny reared back. “Your fifteen minutes is up, Will.”

Time slowed.

The knife came down, slicing through and jamming into Will’s shoulder to the joint.

Pain bloomed; blinding, numbing, bone-deep pain. 

The door of the shack slammed open. 

Voices. Shouting.

Two gun-shots.

Lenny collapsed forward. 

And then Will’s vision filled with blood. 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter is still scheduled to come out next week Thursday. I felt you needed some spoiling after a long absence.  
Thank you for reading, for your kudos, and your comments, as always!


	11. Tactical Conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 32-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Eleven

Tactical Conversations.

-+-

After Freddie’s exposé, he dreamed of Lenny for the next few nights straight. He didn’t remember much of it when he woke; just bits and pieces. Lenny leering down at him, his yellow-tinged eyes reflective in the low light. The ache in his shoulder would follow him out of sleep, a dull throbbing through the first few hours of his morning, as he went about his business. 

He tried to avoid thinking of him, found himself redirecting thoughts of Lenny to ones of Louisiana, especially in the years of his youth. And Louisiana, of course, led to thoughts of his father. 

He’d been scrolling through his emails, trying to find his father’s recipe for catfish—a nostalgic thing to reread, as he had prefaced the recipe with a dissertation-length diatribe on the state of fishing, the quality of boat motors, and a long description of how things had been in the days of his youth—when his screen blacked out, and started ringing in his hand, Alana’s name in white on its center. He thought his heart might stop, but he pulled himself together and tapped the green button to answer the call.

It hadn’t rung more than once. _What an idiot. Way to play it cool._ “Graham,” he answered, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

“Will,” Alana greeted, “were you on your phone?” Usually, she would say this with something like teasing in her voice. But this time, she sounded oddly flat, removed. 

“Yeah, I—” he paused and then gave in, explaining about the email he’d been looking for. “It’s nice to see his name in my inbox,” he said. “Read words written with his voice. The closest I can get to seeing him again, when things are rough.”

“Oh, Will,” she said, all gentle kindness and sympathy, sounding much more like herself. “Are you holding up alright, after Friday? Is that why you’re looking for his comfort?”

“I’m…” he sucked in a breath and let it out slowly between pursed lips. “I’m feeling better.” Most of the symptoms had calmed down. He slept in his bed—or, if he sleepwalked, he did so without waking and ended up back in bed, unawares—for a full six hours, and in the morning his temperature had fallen back to the normal range. He hadn’t sweat through his bedclothes that time, either, miracle of miracles. “I just missed him today. Thought I’d cook one of his recipes.”

“Does this have anything to do with the article Freddie Lounds published?” she asked, voice so tentative, as though fearing she might be stepping on a landmine. But he had prepared for the inquiry. The moment that he read Lounds’ drivel, he knew that Alana would ask about it, whenever they spoke next. He hadn’t expected such a soft approach.

“Lounds knows how to spin a good yarn,” he answered. “She weaves her lies tightly, and darns the holes in the tapestry of her narrative with speculation.” Alana made sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “Her implication that I had anything to do with my father’s death hasn’t been bothering me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Well,” she said in agreement, and then fell silent for a moment. His gratitude that she would let the subject go dissolved the moment he heard the coolness return to her tone when she spoke next. “You missed a nice dinner at Hannibal’s.”

Where had the distance in her voice come from? Had he upset her somehow? “I hear Doctor Lecter always sets a magnificent table.”

“Oh, always. He planned that one with your tastes in mind, too.”

“How would he know what my tastes in food are?” he asked, a little bewildered. 

“Not something you’ve talked about during your _conversations_?” she asked, and he heard a pointedness in her diction, a crispness in the formation of her consonants that clued him off that now _he _ought to be careful not to step on a landmine. 

“No, never,” he answered, carefully. “We only ever talk about the cases.”

A little bit of a white lie, of course. They did, often, end up pursuing tangential lines of conversation. But while sometimes they turned to the topic of themselves, they had never talked about anything so personal as preferences in cuisine. 

“That’s unusual,” she said, each word lengthened, careful, “for doctor and patient.”

Will blinked. It took him a moment to process that one. “We’re not doctor and patient,” he corrected, adopting the cadence of her speech: slow, measured, controlled. “I believe I told you once that I don’t take to therapy, Doctor Bloom.” Here, he tried to lighten his speech, make it a little teasing, but the brief silence on the other end of the line gave him no feedback on whether or not he’d succeeded. 

He really hated phone calls. 

“I remember,” she said at last. “I thought you must have changed your mind,” she added, thoughtful. “Since you’ve been going over there every Thursday for the last few weeks. I didn’t realize that you were consulting with him.”

“Oh,” Will said, at last realizing where he had put his foot wrong. When he had rebuffed her attempt to help him think on Thursday night and stormed out of Quantico, where had he gone? Directly to Dr. Lecter’s, to find organization of thought that discussions with the man always seemed to bring. He even remembered finding it odd the next day when he told her, that she didn’t seem upset that he’d consulted with someone _not on the case_, rather than with her. But why would she be upset if she assumed they had discussed the case as part of a therapy session? Now that she knew better—_this must have come up at dinner, then_—she felt differently about the matter. He floundered. How could he apologise for not telling her something which she should be perfectly aware was not really her business?

_No, no_. _That’s not why she’s angry._ “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left you out of that discussion.” 

“You undermined me,” she said, her voice now a natural thing, redolent with hurt.

He didn’t answer that right away. He shouldn’t have undermined her in that way, but he didn’t really regret doing it; speaking to Hannibal had brought clarity of mind in a way that Alana wasn’t capable of. Her concern and patience didn’t give him the structure he needed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, instead. 

“I just want you to understand that your behaviour upset me, professionally and personally,” she said, still sounding hurt, though somewhere under that he could hear the undercurrents of her perpetual kindness. 

_Not in her nature to stay mad at someone,_ he thought. Suddenly he remembered that the case had been wrapped up, nice and tidy, already. He could—but _no, no. This is not the right time to ask her out. _

“I understand,” he said, and she made a sound somewhere in the vicinity of ‘mollified’. 

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” he answered, wondering if Jack had told her that Will would refuse any cases that weren’t _relevant to his interests_. But she had already changed the subject to describe what Hannibal had made for dinner—something Will _would_ have liked to eat, after all, though he took objection to the idea that he’d been put into the box of a country yokel that would only enjoy ‘comforting, home-style fare’. 

They talked for a few minutes more, Alana’s voice reaching his ears via speaker phone as he resumed scrolling through his inbox, searching for his father’s email. It felt nice to converse with her as he completed this mundane task. A little domestic even. The call ended with the brightness back in her voice, and a conciliatory mood between them.

He did eventually find the recipe. Instead of making it, he read it through a handful of times, and then took the dogs out for a long constitutional. Lenny still hovered on the edges of his thoughts. He needed to clear his head. 

On Monday, Will made the drive to Quantico. From the moment he sat down at his desk until the moment he finished his report on The Angel-Maker, he had the distinct pleasure of complete solitude. His desk in the little office being one of several belonging to other consultants, this felt like a stroke of luck: he let fly several explosive curses throughout his time at the keyboard, whenever he caught Elliot Budish trying to take control of the narrative. 

This would not be another twelve-page paper. 

In the end, he finished it at just under four. A respectable number, given the number of people that Budish had ferried to the other side. The succinctness and completeness of the information that those pages contained mattered more than the page count, though, and he felt he could rest easy on that score. He read it over twice to be certain; he wouldn’t give Jack anything to complain about. 

A knock on the door tore his attention from the screen, and Will’s heart almost leapt from his chest. 

Alana stood there, smiling sweetly, holding two cups of to-go coffee aloft in her hands. “Can I come in?” she asked, head tilting a little to the side, her smile widening. 

“It’s your office too,” he answered, cocking a brow in response. “I can’t stop you.”

She laughed. “But I’m going to _your_ desk. I brought coffee, if that makes me any more welcome?”

“Come right in,” he said, arm sweeping wide to gesture at the chair opposite the desk. 

“Talked to Jack,” she said, passing him the coffee cup. He didn’t stifle his groan, didn’t let his fingers linger over hers as he took the beverage, either. “I’m happy that you advocated for yourself.” He gave a little shrug for answer, too busy focusing on the gold stud in her earlobe, the way her hair curled behind her ear, tucked away from her face. “You’re feeling better?” She sounded more hopeful than convinced. 

“I’m not passing out, if that’s what you mean.”

The joke fell flat. “You look like a ghost, Will.” 

“No—” he said, gripping his cup tightly, taking a seat as she did. “Not a ghost. Alive and well.” Now she sat there, silent, unimpressed. “Maybe I’m fighting one,” he conceded when she did not relent. “But I’m okay.”

“Marron?” she asked, ignoring the platitude. “Or Stammets?”

Will huffed out a breath and averted his face, turning in the direction of his shoulder, staring at the bare wood paneling of the office wall. _I knew this was coming_, he reminded himself, hating Freddie Lounds all the more for bringing Alana to him just to have this conversation. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, clenched his fingers._ Always a psychiatrist first._

“I didn’t want to bring it up over the phone,” she hedged. 

“I don’t want you to bring it up now.”

“Will,” she said his name the way Will imagined his mother might have, if he’d ever known her, if she’d ever caught him misbehaving. “You want to talk to me about this, because you don’t want to have to talk to Jack about this.”

“I don’t see that I need to talk about it at all,” he said, slowly, each word acid against his tongue. “It’s not relevant to the terms of my employment.”

“Jack won’t send you out into the field if he has concerns about your mental stability, Will,” she argued. “You’ve been through two major traumas related to your field of work. He has every reason to be concerned.” 

She used Jack’s name, but Will knew she meant herself. He chose to ignore the subtext. “Jack’s interest in my mental state extends only so far as to whether I am physically able to meet the demands of my job,” he argued. “Lenny Marron was _years _ago.”

“There’s no statute of limitations on trauma,” she said, her voice low and gentle. He recognized that strategy. He’d seen her use it on Jack any number of times, when he got unreasonable or difficult to handle. 

His stomach soured. _Psychiatrists_. He pushed the coffee away and resumed his vigil over the wall. “Unless I am mandated to seek counselling about it, this is not a subject of conversation that I’m entertaining, Doctor Bloom.” He tried to keep his voice as easy, as calm as he could. But he could hear the resentment in his words. 

She recoiled a little, as though he’d struck her. 

_Maybe reverting to her title hit a little hard_. 

“You know I was against you taking cases from the beginning, Will,” she said, still maintaining that gentle voice, though the stubborn set of her jaw gave the words a firmer bite. “This is exactly why. You’re not well. You _know_ you aren’t. And this work is making it worse.”

“Then I fail to see where the issue is,” Will bit out, tightening his jaw as he turned to stare at her chin. “As I will be limiting the cases I consult on.”

“To the _Chesapeake Ripper’s_,” she argued. “I see the way you absorb these men, Will. If Budish could do this to you, what havoc will the Ripper wreak on you?” 

He said nothing. 

“I’m worried about you. I’m worried about how the work affects you, about how the Ripper would. And I’m worried that you might be in his crosshairs too.”

“Me?” he couldn’t help the disbelief in his voice, the way his neck ticked, dropping his head a little to the side. 

“He put an article about you in the box he left for Freddie,” she added, deflating, the righteousness losing against her concern.

“About Stammets,” he corrected. 

She collapsed back into her seat, her coffee forgotten on top of the desk. “Stammets’ letter _to you_.”

“No.” His flat disagreement startled her. “My inclusion in that article is a byproduct of it being about Stammets,” he said. “The bulk of it was Freddie’s rambling on about his promise to plant me in his garden.” An interpretation that had landed so unbelievably wide of the mark that Will melted with relief. “I’m not what he’s interested in.”

“So Stammets doesn’t want to bury you?” she asked. 

“He wants to connect,” Will reiterated, for what felt like the millionth time. 

“And the Ripper would know this, of course. It’s just Freddie’s journalistic integrity he’s concerned with,” she dead-panned, and Will remembered saying something along those lines to her, not a week ago. 

This stopped him for a second. _How would_ _the Ripper know? But he must, just—_“Look at the whole thing in context,” he insisted. “A shaming mask. Nested in the bed of her lies—specifically, the ones where she gives credit for a kill to the wrong person.” He could see the protest on her lips, and barged ahead. “Or in Stammets’ case, misrepresenting the intentions of those who kill. I don’t know, maybe he has a thing about mail theft, too.”

Alana went still. She stared. Made no attempt to speak, to redirect him. 

So he kept on talking. Enthusiastically, now. On a roll.

“He was shaming her for the content of those articles, not declaring an interest in either party mentioned. Just a few selections from a career of similar slights. Invasive and dishonest. An earlier time in human history and she would have been cast out, a pariah, for the way she conducts herself. The—the Ripper’s rebuke, it’s...”

The words on the tip of his tongue—_almost beautiful_—died when he keyed in to the way Alana was looking at him. 

“Do you—” she cleared her throat. “Do you hear yourself?” 

Her blue eyes glittered, and he caught the profound sadness in them before, from habit, he forced himself to look away. 

“You may not want to admit it, Will, but the experiences we live leave a mark on us. On you, deeper than most. The ghosts you’ve been fighting won’t go away on their own.” She stood, patted down her coat once. “When you’re ready for reinforcements,” she said, voice heavy, “when you’re ready for help, you have my card.”

She gave him one final, lingering look before making for the door. 

For a long while, he could hear nothing but the echo of her heels, clicking down the hallway as she walked away.

-+-

Hannibal ushered Mr. Froideveaux to the exit door, keeping his expression as patient as possible, as the man rattled on about a new exhibit at the art gallery he frequented and made veiled references to the possibility of their bumping into one another there. As soon as the door closed, Hannibal took a slow, calming breath, and then headed to his desk to retrieve his tablet.

Franklyn had come outside of his usual schedule under the pretense of an emergency situation. His ‘emergency’ ended up revolving around his feelings of anxiety and inadequacy when trying to select a suit to wear to the opera on a first outing with a new friend. The underlying purpose of this visit, of course, was to alert Hannibal that he had taken up an interest in opera, after having heard it played in the office as he sat, unexpected, in the waiting room. 

Hannibal should probably begin working on a referral, and yet, he could not convince himself to do so. While Franklyn bordered on intolerable much of the time, Hannibal derived some entertainment from his sycophantism. Franklyn seemed to have no limits—he would go to whatever lengths he deemed necessary to attain the attention of someone he deemed worthy. 

_A, uh, desire to touch greatness?_

Will’s words had a charm to them; they would bubble up, days later, after marinating in Hannibal’s mind. Indeed, when Will had first said those words, referring to Hannibal’s hope to encounter the Ripper during the Gideon case, Hannibal had thought instantly of Franklyn Froideveaux, and his pathological need to be connected to those that moved the world. 

Or at least, the world as he saw it. 

To a degree, Alana and Jack too displayed some of this same tendency around him. They evinced a desire to partake of the world of aestheticism and sensualism in which Hannibal lived. They would not find it comfortable to live their lives in that manner, a sense of puritanical guilt would prevent them from truly giving over, but the desire remained. At least occasionally, they could not help but want to approach it, experience it. 

Will, by contrast, had yet to show any interest in the worldly delights in which Hannibal surrounded himself. He ambled around the office, touching things and moving them, but never really attending to any specific one. Though, perhaps there might be one exception: the harpsichord. But here, his interest lay not in admiration for the object, but appreciation for the purity of its sound. Hannibal had yet to see the inside of Will’s home, and while he kept the exterior of the house in good repair, judging from his clothing and his car, Hannibal felt certain that Will lived a more ascetic life than a self-indulgent one. 

Then again, perhaps his self-indulgence might express itself in the number of animals that he kept. Hannibal had seen now at least five different colors and varieties of dog hair on his coat. 

He found himself smiling as he sat down, tablet now in hand. But then, he smiled often when in contemplation of Will Graham. 

Upon unlocking his tablet and opening his email, however, the smile melted from his face. Jack Crawford had sent him yet another entreaty to formalize his consultancy. Will might yield to consistently applied pressure, but Hannibal did not appreciate Jack’s persistence. He would make his decision when he felt ready to. 

Once he began reading the email, however, Hannibal found himself grateful that he had not deleted it unread, never mind that by nature his meticulousness would never allow him to do so. 

Of particular interest were the following lines: _I would have mentioned it when the subject of the Angel-Maker came up at dinner, but Dr. Bloom made it clear that the discussion wasn’t appropriate for the table: Will Graham has declared his intention to only work on cases relating to the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you made an excellent team and I was beyond pleased with your work in particular, Dr. Lecter. I know that we can bring the Ripper to justice with you two working the case together. I also have to confess I am hoping that Will, who has also reported enjoying your collaboration, will choose to weigh in on other cases if you are at the helm._

This brought the smile back to his face. Will Graham had a discerning taste. The empty showmanship of Gideon’s work and the lack of refinement in Eliot Budish’s would not satisfy him. No—he would specialize instead in the Chesapeake Ripper’s creations. He had yet to see Will’s unfiltered, immediate reactions to anything of the Ripper’s work; what a pleasure it would be to witness them firsthand. The impressions of a true connoisseur. 

Better still, of someone who _saw_. 

The opportunity to secure this future, in addition, of course, to the opportunity to familiarize himself further with the FBI’s procedures, tempted him to accept Jack’s invitation. He tapped his finger along the edge of his tablet, wondering if perhaps he ought to issue a caveat to his consultancy, the way that Will had. After all, with a caseload as large as his current one, he would have precious little time to give Jack. 

He composed a thoughtful answer and reread it twice before sending it. 

Not a few minutes later, halfway through Freddie Lounds’ latest, his mobile phone rang. Jack, unsurprisingly. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack greeted, when Hannibal answered his call. 

“Jack.”

“Thank you for your email,” Jack said, mindful of his manners. “Couldn’t have come at a better time. You specified the bigger cases,” he went on, eliciting a frown from Hannibal—those had not been his _exact_ words, or even the exact intention behind them—“and I have a big one for you.”

“Oh?” 

“We’ve got—must be at least fifteen different people, or parts of people, in various states of decay,” he said. A sharp gust of wind blew into the microphone then, and Hannibal realized that Jack must be outside. At the crime scene. “Our unsub has set up a totem pole on the beach here in Grafton.”

West Virginia. “I’m afraid I have clients this afternoon, Jack. I won’t be able to make it that far.”

“Our photographer has documented the scene as thoroughly as you could like,” Jack answered. “Can you spare us a few hours at Quantico, tonight or tomorrow?”

Hannibal hummed, getting up to go to his desk. “One moment, please, while I look at my schedule.”

He could find his appointment book blind-folded, but he took his time to remove it from the drawer and flip open to Wednesday. A comparatively light work-day, with no clients in the hour following lunch, and nobody scheduled after the four o’clock booking. His eyes flitted over to the next page—here, his morning appeared relatively clear, though he had clients booked through six o’clock. And then, in the seven o’clock spot, he had penciled in Will Graham’s name.

Will seemed the type to form habits and acclimatize to patterns rather quickly. With a new case, he could reinforce the pattern that had formed over the last few weeks, and invite Will over for another evening of whiskey and discussions on the depravity of man. 

“I can accommodate you tomorrow afternoon,” Hannibal said, tracing the pencil lines with a fingertip. “I should be available after five, or four at the earliest if my last client is able to reschedule.” 

“Tell them the FBI thanks them for their cooperation, if you like,” he said. “Tends to smooth things over with most people.”

Hannibal gave him a chuckle. “Allow me a few hours to get a hold of them.”

“Of course. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” 

He disconnected the call and set his phone down on the desk. A quick, silent debate followed. Should he extend his invitation to Will now, or wait until he’d examined some of the photographs and formed an impression of the case? He decided on the latter. A little urgency would help persuade him, Hannibal felt certain. 

He delayed calling his patient until he finished reading the TattleCrime article that Jack’s call interrupted. Nothing particularly relevant to his current interests, but he disliked leaving things unfinished. As predicted, his client agreed to reschedule with little persuasion. 

Among Will’s manifold attractions, this one stood out in prominence. He presented a delightful puzzle, an enticing challenge. He did not yield to Hannibal’s preferences, did not go out of his way to please him. Hannibal had, of course, been subjected to the ‘hard-to-get’ approach in previous _romantic _engagements, but they had never proven remotely as effective; their capitulation a forgone conclusion, where Will’s could not be considered a certainty.

His calls completed, he returned to his tablet and refreshed the TattleCrime homepage. Jack’s totem pole had been set up in Grafton, so Freddie Lounds would likely not have gotten the jump on that scene the way she did the more local ones. He did not expect to see an article just yet, though the hope remained. 

Indeed, Freddie had only tweeted that she’d received a tip and would be following up.

Hannibal closed his eyes, allowed the tension in his body to sit there as he held his breath. When he exhaled, he breathed it all out, going loose. _Patience_, he reminded himself, and laughed a little that he needed a reminder at all. 

_In all things, patience_.

-+-

Jackpot. 

The bar sat right across from the heart of everything at Gallery Place, DC’s local Chinatown. It took him a second to find the staircase down into the dive, though once he spotted the sign on the side-walk he wondered how he had missed it. Jackpot. Happy Hour, $2 off beer, 4-8PM, every day. The staircase down was decorated with eccentric tchotchkes, no cohesive theme, but the interior of the bar itself featured a borderline grunge-y basement aesthetic. On the far wall, a mural styled like an old movie poster read, “Gambling with Souls,” and he stared at it for a long moment before looking around for Matthew Brown. 

The search ended quickly. On a Tuesday at four, Jackpot boasted only one other patron. Matthew sat at the far end of the bar, a container of popcorn in front of him, chatting amiably with the bartender. His dark eyes cast over toward Will and he tapped the stool next to him in invitation for Will to sit. The bartender, a clean-shaven man with a military haircut, wearing a black t-shirt with the shop’s name on the back, slapped a clipboard with a menu down in front of the stool, and murmured for him to call out whenever he’d decided on a drink. 

“Whatever he’s having,” Will said, and the man grunted before grabbing a glass and turning toward the tap. 

Will watched as he filled the glass, waited to thank the bartender before he at last turned to Brown, whose eyes were boring into his face as though he could see through to his thoughts if he stared hard enough. 

“Matthew Brown,” Will said at last. 

“Will Graham,” he answered, before sliding a twenty across the counter. “Drinks on me, Bob. I’m treating my new friend here, tonight.” Bob grunted, took the money from him, and shuffled off to the other end of the bar to busy himself with cutting limes. 

“Thanks for the drink,” Will said, bringing the beer to his lips. A coffee stout by a local brewery. He didn’t mind it, and honestly if it had any caffeine worth mentioning in it then he would be ordering another one. 

“Thank you for coming.” Brown raised his glass and then, at last, he stopped staring to look down at his beer as he took an inaugural sip himself. He didn’t say anything else.

But then, Will hadn’t expected him to. Matthew Brown had an interest in Will, and he would seek to cultivate Will’s interest in turn. He would force him to take an active part in this exchange. “I should mention that, uh, I appreciate your discretion,” Will said, dropping both hands to the bar, running the pads of his fingers over the slightly tacky surface of the sealed wood, imagining he could feel the grain as he ran his fingers and his eyes over it. In his periphery, Brown also watched his hands. 

They were making him look nervous, he realized. His fingers stilled. 

“You can rest easy, Mr. Graham. Your secret is safe with me.”

This caught his attention. Will raised his head, looked at Brown’s profile, took in the craftiness in his smile. “I was referring to whatever it was Stammets had to say to me. What secret?”

“The one that you and Eldon Stammets share. He’s talked about you, you know. He doesn’t ever talk much, but when he does, you’re his favorite subject.”

Will swallowed thickly. “Not with Frederick Chilton, I hope.”

Brown’s answering laugh flooded Will with relief. “I meant when he talks to _me_. Nobody talks to Chilton.”

Will gave him a quick, rueful little smile before looking back down at his glass, tapping his fingers on the bar. He gnawed on his cheek, reminded his fingers to sit still. “I wonder about you,” he said, knowing that this would secure Matthew Brown’s cooperation. A little stroke of his ego to smooth things along. “About why you’re so eager to help him reach me, among other things.”

“You ever…” Matthew cleared his throat, then sat a little straighter, turned his body to face Will’s. “Have you noticed the way smaller birds will mob a hawk on a wire, Mr. Graham?” He paused, licked his lips. His gaze grew more intense; Will moved his eyes to his earlobe. _Small ears_. “You and me. We’re the hawks Mr. Graham.”

“They’re um—” he glanced at Brown’s eyes again, then returned to the ear, “solitary creatures.”

“And that’s their weakness. I’m lending you a hand. Crossing that divide. If we’re no longer solitary, well, we can accomplish…” he trailed off, shrugged. _There’s no limit to what we can accomplish._

“You do me a favor, I do you a favor…?”

“That’s just quid pro quo,” Brown answered. “Not what I’m interested in. Or what you’re interested in, either.”

“Oh?” He couldn’t help the way his lips twitched upward at this comment. Brown had a sort of charisma about him, he supposed. He had a sort of charm. If Will hadn’t been so on his guard around him from the outset, he might find plenty to like about the man.

Brown leaned in, his hand sliding across the wood toward Will’s, but stopping a few inches away from touching distance. “You want connection.”

For a moment, caught in the man’s charm, Will felt the magnetic pull of Brown’s hand, so close to his. He found it remarkably easy to resist. He did, however, stop resisting the smile. “And how do you know that?”

“I know what you want,” Brown leaned in further, “and that I can give it to you,” he added with a wink, eliciting a genuine laugh from Will and answering it with a wide, wolfish grin, “because I know who you are.”

“And who am I?” Will asked, feeling Dr. Lecter’s question—_And who are you?_—come out of his mouth with the same mirthful cadence in which the doctor had uttered it, that day in his Bentley sitting outside of the BSHCI. They had been speaking of the mysterious package left on his porch; unknowingly, they had been speaking of Matthew Brown. Or, of what he thought he knew.

Brown raised his glass. “A hawk, Mr. Graham. A hawk.”

Will chuckled and turned back to the bar, only then realizing that he’d angled his body toward Brown’s as they spoke, mirroring how Brown had angled himself toward Will’s. “Behold, a man,” he murmured, and touched his fingers to the condensation on his glass.

“What was that?” Brown asked, setting his own beer down on the counter.

Will took his sip then: not returning a toast, just drinking. “Behold, a man,” he repeated, after swallowing the cold, bitter brew. When Brown blinked uncomprehendingly, he took pity on him. “You read much philosophy?”

Brown’s chest puffed up. “Hobbs, Kant, Hume, Marx, Marquis de Sade…”

“Enlightenment thinkers, mostly, then. Any classical philosophy?”

Now, Brown shifted on his stool. “Not enough to get the reference,” he admitted when Will continued to watch him in silence. 

“Plato has his archetypes, right?” Brown’s face brightened in recognition. “He’s up there, lofty in his academy, teaching his students, and he defines man as a featherless biped. A lecturer’s joke.” He pushed up his glasses a little, then lowered his hands to his thighs, fingers splayed wide, the texture of the denim tickling his palms. “And then along comes Diogenes. He’s this—this ascetic type. A hippie, generally unliked. Carries a lantern during the day so people will ask him why, just so that he can answer that he’s looking for an honest man.” This brought a smile to Brown’s face, one that reached his eyes, which were trained on Will’s lips as he spoke. “He hears about Plato’s little quip and finds it ridiculous. No feathers, two legs—ridiculous. So he busts into the academy and bellows, ‘Behold, a man!’ holding a plucked chicken aloft in his hands.”

Brown laughed then—_a true laugh, not one aimed to appease_—and propped his head up in his hands to gaze more comfortably at Will, fondness written all over his expression. “Behold, a man,” he repeated, humor still coloring his voice. “Which is it, then? Am I oversimplifying you, _featherless biped,_” this continuation, accompanied by a hand reaching back across the counter a little, “or am I passing a bird off as a man?” He grinned again, a wicked thing. “Or a man off as a hawk?”

Will raised an eyebrow and tossed a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. “What was Stammets’ message, Mr. Brown?”

“Matthew,” he corrected, “or Matty, if you like.” He didn’t seem to mind the deflection—_it’s confirmed whatever answer he favored, anyway_—instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled a small piece of paper from inside. He didn’t hand it over right away. “You read it here,” he said, holding it with his index and middle finger, waving it in the space between them. 

Will wanted nothing more than to snatch it from him, but he tamped down the urge . His throat went dry at the sight of the small, folded piece of paper. “I thought you said this wasn’t quid pro quo. And you’ve already read it, anyway.”

“I have, and it’s not,” he answered, that calculating look, the rigid smile returning to his face. “But I promised Stammets I would report your reaction back to him, since—” again, the rigidness melted into wickedness, “he never got a reply to his letter.”

Will licked his lips, buying himself a moment to think through his answer. This game that Matthew so loved to play… he could see the fun in it. The push and pull. Given a few years, Matthew might get to be quite good at it; Will must have almost a decade on him, and those years spent in solitude, reading and reading and reading. Right now, though, they did not stand on a level playing field. The gap between them prevented Matthew from presenting a worthy adversary. Will could think of someone who—

_Stop distracting yourself._

He settled on, “I’d like to know what you’re planning on telling him, if you don’t mind.” 

Matthew inclined his head and handed the note over with a flourish, an acquiescent bow of his head.

Will sucked in a breath, schooled his facial expression. The paper felt warm from having been in Matthew’s pocket. It had been folded in four, a sheet no bigger than the size of a postcard. He recognized Eldon’s writing immediately, even down to the pressure he had exerted on the paper with the tip of the ballpoint he’d used in writing it. Just once, he ran his fingers over the words. The bumps and grooves told a story, the tension in his hand as he wrote. He’d been anxious. 

He licked his lips again before he started reading, adopting as neutral an expression as he could manage. 

_Dear Will,_

_I know why you didn’t write back. Why you put me off when we last met. I know we can’t be seen together until after the trial. I want you to know I understand, that I don’t hold it against you. But there is nobody here quite like me. Like you. I should have listened to you. Then there would not be appearances to uphold and bars between us. Matthew has been helpful, trustworthy as far as this: he promised to deliver this to you, to keep things discreet. When you are ready, you can reach me through him. _

_Yours, Eldon_

He read it twice. It read as urgent. He’d probably written it under fear of discovery. It read as frustrated. Eldon forgave; he understood. But he felt lonely. Hard done by. 

_Can’t blame him, _Will thought, carefully folding the note. _He’s the one who ended up in prison._

Matthew still stared at him. He probably expected that Will would give him a verbal response. Instead, Will reached into his front coat pocket for a pen with one hand and grabbed a napkin from the bar with the other. _Soon_, he wrote on the fragile paper, as tidy and as patient as he could. He briefly considered signing it, but instead folded up the napkin and handed it to Matthew. “My response.” Matthew’s fingers reached out to take it; the digits were long and slender, and though they lacked Dr. Lecter’s grace, they shared in economy of movement. 

Those long fingers lifted the napkin, so carefully folded, and unfolded it to read the short message. An obvious display of power. _He is the intermediary here. We are both in debt to him_. 

“So,” Will said, voice even. “What will you tell him?”

Matthew hummed, tilting his head one way and then another, as though just now beginning to examine Will’s face. “You were happy to hear from him,” he said at length. “Grateful to me for lending a hand.” This, delivered with another little wink, though said without levity.

After adjusting his glasses, Will pounded the rest of his beer. Bob, ears trained to the sound of an empty glass plunking on the counter, ambled over. “Another?” he asked. Will shook his head, thanking him again with a murmur and waiting for the man to ask Matthew the same question before delivering the change that he owed from Matthew’s twenty-dollar bill. Matthew picked up all but the fiver at the bottom of the stack, which Bob pocketed before walking away. 

_A good tipper, _Will observed idly_. And not in a rush to be done_. 

But Will’s goal in coming here would shortly be met. 

“There’s one more thing,” he said, zipping up his jacket. “A question.” Matthew made to pull the napkin from his pocket so that Will could add more to his message, but Will held out a hand to stay him. 

“I’m listening,” Matthew said, eyes gleaming. Will could hear the gears turning in Matthew’s head. If Will didn’t want to write his question down, that meant he didn’t want it tracked back to him. _Not ‘I’m listening’, _Will corrected silently. _‘I’m interested.’_

“Ask him...” Will started, contemplative, drawing the ‘m’ out. “Ask him if he’s ever met the Chesapeake Ripper.”

The way Matthew’s eyebrows went up, the way his lips separated, showed Will how entirely unexpected that question had been. The _interest_, already so loud in Matthew’s bearing, became a scream: he hunched over a little and leaned in, narrowed his eyes to examine Will more closely. The wheels turning behind Matthew’s eyes doubled in speed, trying to figure out what could have led Will to come to that conclusion—the content of the TattleCrime articles in the Ripper’s gift to Freddie had not been publicized, after all—why he would be asking _now_, and what he had planned in response to either answer. 

But he wouldn’t outright ask. That would give away too much of the game. “I’ll ask him,” Matthew said, voice low. “This have something to do with the Ripper’s mask?”

“I can’t provide details on an ongoing investigation, but,” Will said, leaning in just a little, toward Matthew’s ear, “but, no.” Technically, not a lie.

On the verge of following this up with a request for Matthew to avoid texting him Eldon’s response, the sound of clacking against the floor and a shallow panting sound distracted him. 

“Oh, yeah,” Matthew said as Will turned on his stool to see who was breathing heavy so close behind him. “I forgot to mention. They have a dog.”

Will’s surprise melted into unrestrained glee as he took in the white and brown-painted mutt, whose shaggy tail wagged faster and faster as she pressed her nose against his leg. He dropped to his knees in front of her, smile pushing his glasses up his nose, and redirected his grin at Matthew briefly before reaching for the dog. 

In the corner of his eye, he caught Matthew’s amazement, caught him as he fumbled his wallet. Heard it fall to the floor beside him. He registered the vague sensation of his hair shifting on the top of his head, and knew that Matthew had reached out and touched it. But Will didn’t say anything, busy instead with petting and cooing over the adorable mutt. 

As much as Matthew denied that his goodwill came with conditions, denied the desire for a quid pro quo, Will knew better. Matthew was a psychopath. He would offer favors to try and gain Will’s trust, but no favors came for free. He would give him this light touch to his hair, to keep him sweet, keep him helpful. 

He could find ways to make him useful. For now. 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackpot is an actual place, and actually the service there is super friendly. I’ve heard rumors of a dog, but didn’t see one, the time I went.
> 
> I'm back to being more than one chapter ahead, but I wanted to alert you all that I have: a trip to Finland; the purchase, preparation, and move into a new house; an extended mother in law visit; and the beginning stages of editing my first draft for my novel coming up in the next few months. I will do my darnedest to avoid delayed updates by continuing to build up my chapter buffer while things are calm, but wanted to let you all know in advance, _just in case_.
> 
> Expect regular updates as usual for the next few weeks! Which puts the next one up on 2/6!


	12. Behold, a Man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 40-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twelve

Behold, a Man.

-+-

After he’d stormed out of Quantico on Monday, the second disastrous conversation with Alana in a row behind him, Will sat in his car and updated his website to say that he’d be taking new projects. His little repair and rejiggering business had been up and running for four years; he had an established clientele, people who trusted only his hands on their machinery. And with word of mouth and good search engine optimization, new clients were always sending work his way. By the time he’d driven home from Jackpot, the requisitions started rolling in. 

A non-functioning antique revolver that the owner wanted brought up to working condition. A boat motor that needed maintenance before Spring. A grandfather clock that had mysteriously stopped ticking. The revolver would arrive on Thursday morning via local courier; it would take some time for the rest to be brought over or mailed in, but at least he had the work lined up. 

And with the work, he had the promise of something to keep him busy now that he had returned to a life mostly free of chasing serial killers around town. Something to occupy him until either Stammets’ trial or the Ripper’s next reappearance. 

Or until Matthew got back to him about whether Stammets had ever met the Ripper. 

While he waited for his new work—or for his answers—to come, he cleaned house. He dusted and mopped and scrubbed, moved furniture around and vacuumed where it had sat unmoved for years. A little early for spring cleaning, but taking layers of dirt off every surface and evicting the dust bunnies from underneath had a clearing effect on his mind too.

He still had nightmares. Still Sweated. Still roamed at night. But he felt sharper during the day. Ready. 

His fingers trailed over the freshly dusted fallboard on his upright piano, and a wave of nostalgia overcame him. A moment’s hesitation before he raised it to stroke over the keys, free of dust but slightly yellowed with age. He played a quick scale, and winced at the wobbly, discordant notes. It _really_ needed tuning; wouldn’t be worth touching until he’d had it serviced. 

He could clean the keys, though. Yellowed plastic keys didn’t have the charm of aging ivory, of that patina that the rare material acquired over time. Once he finished cleaning house, he turned his time to his piano, patiently and carefully polishing each key free of the tarnish. When he finished, he set about looking for someone to tune it, and internet inquiries on the subject seemed to have reached a consensus. Chordophone string shop in Baltimore, apparently, couldn’t be beat, and they served the entire metro area.

_I’ll have to swing by,_ he decided, ending his search, and hunkering down on the floor under the instrument to polish the pedals.

At length, Thursday came. 

Will waited for the courier outside of his front gate, the morning sun shining in his eyes, his breath freezing in his nostrils with every exhale. He threw a ball for the dogs as he waited, watched their joyful romping with an indulgent eye. They followed him into the shed when he went in at last with the revolver, packed in a recycled Amazon box, under one arm. 

He settled himself down at his work table, the small space heater pointed at his feet, and started on his new project with a zeal that felt unfamiliar in retrospect; when he at last took a break to eat, the sun had already passed its zenith. _I guess I missed it_, he thought, sipping from the mug he’d poured his coffee into, munching on a ham and cheese sandwich. B_usy fingers and a blank mind. _

The work made him feel more centered, more _himself_.

He took the time after eating to wash the built-up dirty dishes in the sink, dry them and put them back into their respective cabinets. Housework always ended up getting forgotten, when he came down with—with whatever it was that made him see Elliot Budish descend from the rafters of the barn and speak to him about the glory of his _becoming_. 

When he opened the front door again, the cold almost kept him inside. He eyed his shed, knowing that it would be much less hospitable than the house. _Should get it insulated._ _Climate controlled, _he thought, the way he did every winter. Detailed work and numb, gloved hands didn’t complement one another, after all. _I’ll get central air, someday._ Probably a lie. The dogs followed him across the yard and inside the wooden structure, piling together at his feet and in front of the heater, as though in hopes of convincing him to make his hypothetical plans a reality.

He got in no more than an hour of good work before the first interruption came. A text from Matthew—then another and another. Just exactly the thing to break Will’s concentration for the remainder of the day. 

_[Heading in to work in a minute]_

_[I’m running your errand today]_

_[Lunch break’s at eight. I’ll call]_

How could he get back to work, with that kind of promise looming on the horizon? He set his phone down on the table in front of him, casting his eyes over the various parts of the revolver and for the life of him not able to remember what he’d been doing with it just a minute ago. _And what can I do with that information when I get it, anyway? Not tell Jack_. Of course not. 

_[I’ll be waiting],_ he replied.

If Eldon knew the Chesapeake Ripper, then Jack would force protective custody on Will, guaranteed. Jack wanted the Stammets case wrapped up quick and clean; the possibility that the Ripper might know and care about Stammets in any way would make Will a target. He was part of the reason that Eldon had been caught and imprisoned, after all. They would credit the Ripper with Matthew Brown’s gift, and who knew what _yet another_ successive misattribution would bring about, when the Ripper had made his opinion on the subject so perfectly clear?

So he wouldn’t tell Jack. 

And if Eldon _didn’t _know him… 

But then, the Chesapeake Ripper may know Eldon Stammets without Eldon being aware. _That’s how it was for us_, he remembered. Eldon had been no more than a faceless shadow lurking in the periphery of Will’s day-to-day, a specter selling him his dogs’ prescriptions, at a time when Will had featured actively in Eldon’s internal life.

Will couldn’t sit still enough to work. He stood, and the dogs followed his unspoken cue. After turning off the heater and locking the shed behind them, and after completing the ritual of cleaning paws on the way inside the house, he stood in the entryway of his home and stared, at a loss for what to do.

The second interruption came then, again phenomenally timed: his phone, still clutched tightly in his hand, rang. 

For a moment, Will could swear that he’d lost time again. That he’d zoned out next to his front door for the hours and hours between Matthew texting and Matthew calling on his lunch break. But the name on his screen disproved that theory, and surprised him back into reality. 

Not Matthew. Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

“Graham,” he answered, taking off his hat and then working the buttons on his coat with his free hand. 

“Will,” greeted the doctor. “I hope I haven’t called you at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” Will answered, hearing the out that the doctor offered him, growing conscious all of a sudden of the numerous occasions where he’d declined to give the man his time. “You’ve caught me at the right moment. I could really use a distraction just now, actually.”

“Excellent.” In the background, a door slammed. “I have called to offer you just that.”

Will smiled, scratched at the back of his neck. “That so?”

“I am just now leaving Grafton,” Dr. Lecter said.

“West Virginia?” Will immediately suspected that this had something to do with the FBI. What else would take Dr. Lecter to Grafton in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, when he would otherwise surely have clients scheduled?

“The same. Jack Crawford has invited me to consult on a rather interesting case.” 

Will frowned. _There it is_. 

“I had hoped that you might assist me in organizing my opinions on the matter.”

He shrugged off his coat and tossed it on his bed, knelt to unlace his boots. “Returning a favor?”

“Hardly anything so transactional as that,” Dr. Lecter said. “I value your perspectives and your insight, Will. And more than that, I enjoy our conversations.”

“So you’re not asking at Jack’s behest?”

“Not at all,” the doctor assured, an appalled note to his voice that convinced Will of his authenticity. “I won’t deny that he would be delighted to hear of your participation, but I confess his happiness was the least of my concerns in inviting you.”

This earned the good doctor a chuckle. But, still. “I doubt you need any help forming your opinions, Doctor Lecter.”

“And yet I am requesting your assistance, as well as offering the distraction you claim to need so badly,” he countered. “If you require additional incentive, I offer a home-made dinner.”

“I might be more interested in the contents of your liquor cabinet,” Will joked. He kicked his shoes off and wandered over to his couch, but didn’t sit yet. “I may have noticed a bottle of Pappy in there the last time I came by.”

“Then let us sample it together,” said the doctor, humor coloring his voice. “Shall we meet at my office, then? I expect to be back in Baltimore shortly before seven.”

“I’ll meet you there at seven, then,” Will answered. He glanced at the clock. Still an hour or so to kill before he had to leave. He could find ways to fill them. “I’m expecting a call at eight, though, if that affects your plans for dinner.”

“I will keep that in mind, thank you.”

When they ended the call, Will stood perfectly still, staring at his phone as he stood in front of his couch. He didn’t know what to make of this invitation. Not a work call, but a social call… about work? 

He wrinkled his nose. Raised an arm and sniffed, wrinkled his nose even more.

_May as well take a shower_. A shower, and a quick fluff-cycle of the clothes that had been in his dryer, forgotten since the morning.

At this point, Will no longer needed to consult his GPS for the best route to Dr. Lecter’s office. The segment of highway that had been under construction, closing several of the lanes off, was blessedly open for traffic this time around, and he made the drive a little faster than he had on his previous visits. Though this made for a far more pleasant drive, Will found himself an excess of fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, parked in front of the building and skulking in his car. 

He wouldn’t go out until he either saw Dr. Lecter’s Bentley, or the clock struck seven. Well—a minute to seven. Dr. Lecter prized punctuality, after all. If he had to wait for a car to pass to cross the street, he might inadvertently end up a little late to their appointment. 

_Not appointment. Meeting? _He scratched at his chin. _Visit?_ He still couldn’t pick a word for it.

Though he unfastened his seat belt, he stayed sitting in his car, watching the traffic pass by his window. When the clock hit a minute to seven, he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the Bentley driving past, but then he’d never seen it parked on the street when he’d come before. The building must have a garage in the back, or maybe Dr. Lecter parked on one of the side streets. He hopped out of the car and jay-walked across to the front door. 

It opened just as he raised his hand to grab the handle. 

“Will,” Dr. Lecter said, eyes bright, car coat slung over one arm. “Just on time. Please, come in.”

-+-

Will stepped past him into the waiting room, and the scent that followed behind struck Hannibal as something out of the ordinary. He smelled _clean_. Indeed, his hair appeared a little glossy, as though still damp, and carried a distinctly perfumed aroma from whatever grocery store brand of shampoo he used; his clothes carried the scent of dryer sheets rather than wet dog. Though most people would consider showering and donning clean, unwrinkled clothing a matter of course when leaving the house for a social engagement, Hannibal found that he felt gratified, flattered even, to receive this special attention from Will Graham. 

Especially after so long and tedious an afternoon. 

In truth, he had no real need to drive out to Grafton. He visited Quantico yesterday as per his promise to Jack, and examined the crime scene photographs before taking a turn to the lab, where they were busy processing the bodies. _A great many _bodies. Having seen it only in pictures or in pieces, however, he could not cultivate a true appreciation of the scale of the monument, so he decided to take a little day-trip. He rescheduled all but his two earliest patients for another day; after their appointments, he drove the ridiculous distance to Grafton to see where and under what conditions the totem had been erected. 

Hannibal preceded Will into the office, pausing to hang up his car coat, then reaching to assist Will with his jacket—still wrinkled, still covered in dog hair. Will startled a little at the touch of Hannibal’s fingers near the nape of his neck, as though he were not expecting the courtesy, even after having it performed for him each time they had met. 

“You’ve got salt on your, uh,” Will gestured vaguely at his own face. “Your lashes.”

_My eyelashes_. This, from the man who avoided eye-contact as though it caused disease. _In his case, _Hannibal mused, taking in the pallor of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the sweat beading on his skin, _it actually may_. 

“Thank you.” He brushed the salt away. “Are you quite alright?” Hannibal asked. “You look unwell.”

“I’ve been better,” Will admitted, stepping into the office, fingers trailing along each surface he passed by. “But I’m alright.”

Hannibal doubted that much. He would have to get a little closer, see if he could take a better sample of Will’s scent. He’d missed an opportunity while helping him with his coat. “Fevers, chills…?” he asked, tone lightly curious rather than invested. 

Will scoffed. “I’ll remind you that I’m not your patient, Doctor.”

“And here I was poised to prescribe you some medication,” Hannibal teased. “An ancient remedy.”

“Ah,” Will’s eyes twinkled, the warm lighting of a nearby floor-lamp casting them as a clear green. “That kind of remedy, I’ll happily accept.”

“I don’t suggest taking it on an empty stomach.” Hannibal made his way to his cabinet, pulled a pair of bourbon glasses from one shelf and the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle from another. He had yet to open the bottle, had been waiting for a special occasion. The beginning of a new phase of their friendship seemed an appropriate event to celebrate. 

Will hummed, but the corners of his lips were twitching. “Let food be thy medicine, and thy medicine be thy food.”

Hannibal’s smile grew wider as he uncapped the bourbon. “Hippocrates.” He poured. “Would that make food the medicine for what ails you,” he stepped forward with Will’s glass, handing it over to his eager grasp. “Or the medicine for your medicine?”

A little laugh escaped Will’s lips, shone in his eyes. “Yes.”

“If you’ll allow me a moment, I’ll warm up the dinner I’ve brought.”

“You have a kitchen here?” Will asked, looking around at the doors on the interior walls. 

“A makeshift one.” He had a sink and a hot plate, which more than suited his needs for the small meals he reheated on the rare occasion where he could not return home to eat his lunch. “I usually prepare a more elaborate fare for my evening meal,” he confessed. “But as I’ve been out all day, and we are not at my home, I thought something simple and warming might be more appropriate.”

“You have enough for two?” Will asked. 

A little slip, but nothing that gave much away. “I do. I confess I planned to invite you last night, and prepared tonight’s dinner in hope of your acceptance. A moment, please, and I’ll retrieve it.”

He’d set the food to warm on the hot plate in the small storage room he had repurposed to a miniature kitchen. This room alone he had yet to renovate; while not precisely comfortable, he used it so rarely that his ideas of upgrading it were always lost in the hustle and bustle of daily living. _If I expect to be receiving company for dinner here regularly, _he thought of Will, swirling the Pappy in his glass in the other room, _then perhaps I ought to make those idle plans a reality._

On each dish he arranged the handmade bratwurst, pan-roasted vegetables, and salt-boiled fingerling potatoes before arranging a small serving of fresh salad on the side. Something green, to give the dish some brightness, a little life. He carried them out to the office, finding Will still seated in his usual chair.

“Smells good.” Will stood, set his glass down on the coaster on the small table beside him, and approached to offer his help with the dishes. 

“My desk,” Hannibal offered. Much narrower than a dining room table. Not nearly as comfortable, but the prospect of sitting so close held its own appeal. Will walked over to the Hannibal’s drawing table and brought over its stool to set it opposite Hannibal’s chair, then retrieved his drink before parking himself to eat.

Hannibal introduced the meal as he fished out a set of utensils and napkins from the inside of his desk drawer. 

“Home-made?” Will asked, eyeing the bratwurst. “Seems like a lot of work.”

“I am very particular about what I put into my body,” Hannibal answered. He waited, watching Will’s hands as they handled his fork and knife, cut a slice of the meat and popped it into his mouth. Will’s lips moved rhythmically as he chewed, and a small sound of pleasure hummed inside his throat just before his Adam’s apple bobbed with his swallow. Hannibal indulged himself in the sight for one more bite before beginning on his own meal.

“It’s delicious.”

Yes. Mr. Fiorello, for all of his faults, and for all of the panic coloring his final moments, had turned out to be quite the flavorful pig.

“Thank you.” They ate in relative silence at first, Will tucking into his fare with the zeal of the half-starved, initially, before noting Hannibal’s more leisurely pace and slowing down to match. “I don’t believe I mentioned it over the phone, but Jack has informed me of your intent to specialize, as it were.”

“Specialize,” Will repeated, putting his fork down and reaching for his glass of bourbon for the first time since he had begun eating. “Sounds like your word-choice rather than his, Doctor Lecter.”

A smile. “I confess it is.” He cut the last of his potatoes in half. “Jack seemed rather shaken by your decision.”

“He’s used to getting his way,” Will commented, spearing a tomato on the end of his fork, taking a bite. He chewed, swallowed, rested his forearms against the edge of the desk. “Or used to me letting him get his way.” 

Hannibal had his own ideas about why Jack didn’t seem to respect Will’s autonomy. Will, much softer in demeanor by nature, must appear rather meek to so bullheaded and brash a man as Jack. “He has taken your decision rather hard, though I must congratulate it.”

“And here I was going to apologize to you for it,” Will said, humor shining in his eyes. “If I hadn’t drawn that line, you would have stayed home, and Jack would have carted _me_ all the way out to Grafton.”

“Grafton,” Hannibal sighed. Will’s plate sat empty on the desk. “Perhaps we should run through the case, so that we can then socialize in peace?”

_‘Or we can socialize like adults.’ _He had been rebuffed rather soundly after saying those words, not so very long ago. What had Will said?_ ‘I don’t find you that interesting,’ _was it? And yet, now, Will gestured that Hannibal go ahead, not protesting or otherwise displaying a disinclination to the idea of a purely social visit. Hannibal walked over to the door, where he had set his carry-all, and pulled the relevant file from inside. 

“Eighteen victims, at last count,” he said, setting the file on the desk in front of Will. Will pushed his plate aside, returned his stool to the drawing table he had borrowed it from, and stepped back to the desk a little to the right of center. _An invitation to stand side by side_. They had perused Hannibal’s interview questions for Gideon in much the same manner; yet another indicator of Will’s quickness in embracing new routines. 

_His suggestibility_. 

Hannibal filled in the space to Will’s left and flipped open the file. “Erected in a totem. All in various stages of decay. The oldest at the bottom, the most recent remains at the top. The final victim was killed on-site.”

Will’s long, elegant fingers touched to the photograph. Hannibal noted faint dark smudges on his right index and middle fingers, on the tip and pad of his thumb. Perhaps he had been working prior to his arrival? The digits trailed along the image, lingering longer over the faces in the shot. Will stared for a full minute before moving the picture aside to look at the one below it. 

“Any ID?” he asked, voice a faint thing. 

“The final victim, yes. A Joel Summers. Still awaiting identification on the others.” 

Will gazed, unblinking at the image, in that trance-like state that he had entered when they first saw the night nurse’s body at the BSHCI. _He will not notice_. Hannibal breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly. Underneath the bright, fresh scent of Will’s shampoo and soap, the warmth of his skin, Hannibal detected undertones of a green bitterness, peppery and piquant. 

One lungful and then another, but Will remained unaware, too immersed in the images as he flipped from one to the next. He set the photos aside and paged through the initial findings on injuries, notes on decomposition, particular identifiers. All of this, he took in with uncharacteristic stillness and silence. 

“The word ‘totem’ is an anglicization of the Algonquian word _odoodem_, though totems and totem poles are found in many cultures across the globe.” Hannibal eyed the slope of Will’s neck, where a bead of sweat sat, ready to slide down toward his collar. “Commemorative monuments.”

“A monument,” Will repeated, whispering. “My body of work. My résumé. My legacy.” His finger tapped at Joel Summers’ slackened face at the top. “This is my design.”

Had Hannibal been standing any further away, he would not have heard these curious utterances. He could see, now, why Will’s behavior at crime scenes had unsettled his fellow law enforcement officers: they were simple men, with simple minds, whose understanding would be stunted by their intellectual apathy, their absolute lack of curiosity.

Allama Iqbal’s verse sprung to mind:

_Do not come to my garden if you have  
An uninquiring mind, which does not crave  
To know the souls of flowers. My spring is not  
Mere smell and colour, no mere surface wave._

Of course Will would unsettle them. They were but flesh, where he was more; more than light and air and color.

Will seemed to snap out of it then, dark lashes fluttering as he blinked several times in succession. The tension fell from his shoulders; the bead of sweat rolled down his neck as though it had been waiting for that precise moment to fall. 

“What do you think?” Will asked, turning to look up at Hannibal, and for a second their gazes met. Hannibal felt a _frisson_ of excitement course down his spine, but Will’s eyes skated away, dropping down to either Hannibal’s lips or his chin. 

“I had rather hoped to hear _your_ thoughts.”

“I thought you were asking for help,” Will countered, brow arching, “not for me to do your work for you.”

Hannibal laughed at this impertinence, finding he did not resent it. “He killed Joel Summers with a single knife-wound to the heart.”

“Knife wounds are—” Will’s hand came up to rub at his left shoulder, “—personal.”

_That would be the one that Leonard Marron stabbed, then_. “The crowning piece to his résumé. His legacy.” The borrowed words seemed to surprise Will, as though he had not realized he’d spoken them aloud. Hannibal leaned around him, indicating the lowest part of the totem. “By contrast, the oldest remains, the foundation, were noted to have severe blunt-force trauma. Also personal, but of a different flavor. I suspect that either or both of these bookends will be where we find our answer.”

“Oldest bodies are decades old,” Will added, turning back to Miss Katz’s report. “Forty-odd years at least?” He looked at the photograph again. “How old was Joel Summers?”

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment as he caught up with Will’s train of thought. “You suspect a connection between the victims?”

“Just spit-balling,” Will answered, but the stiffness in his voice belied his words. 

Hannibal hummed, tilting his head a little as he regarded Joel Summers’ lifeless face. “Totem poles are often utilized to commemorate ancestry, kinship.”

Will’s lips drew to the side. In thought, perhaps?

“Another case of the sins of the father visited upon the children?” Hannibal asked as he walked to the other side of the desk and pulled the appropriate notebook from his drawer. A dark blue, like a tumultuous sea. Will’s eyes, much the same color just then, had shifted from the paper before him to the notebook now in Hannibal’s hands. 

_Ah. He recognizes it. _Hannibal’s notebook for his observations of Will Graham. 

But Will made no comment as Hannibal flipped the notebook open past the pages about Abel Gideon and his and Will’s discussion of the Angel-Maker. He found an empty page and proceeded to write down some notes on their discussion so far. 

Eyes still on Hannibal’s pen, brows furrowed in concentration, Will added, “Eighteen bodies over forty years. This killer's design is to remain unnoticed, a ghost.”

Again, ‘_design’._ A highly connotative, nuanced word-choice. He had used it once before, when discussing Gideon’s murder of the night nurse. _That Gideon had none, until the nurse lay dead before him. _

“Different causes of death, and the time between murders appears to be inconsistent,” Hannibal agreed.

“It was getting away with it that excited him. He didn’t need external validation, didn’t want it.”

“Until now?” Hannibal asked, seeing where Will was going, but wanting to hear how he would express it; he found himself under the thrall of Will’s insight, taken by the way the man could see so much from so little.

“No. This wasn’t done for—for self-aggrandizement. His résumé, he’s… he’s applying for a job. A role.” Will glanced up at Hannibal’s face again, almost making eye-contact. “He wants to be caught.”

Hannibal set down his pen. 

Will stepped away from the desk, running a hand through his hair. “He’s got to be—what?—mid sixties at his youngest? Probably older than that, with a forty-year work history in this field. He’s accomplished the crowning achievement of his life. Joel Summers is dead. Probably had him do a lot of the heavy lifting. Just the tire tracks and footprints; even in hard-packed sand, an average man that age would struggle to set up something as massive as this thing.” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Joel does the work. Our unsub kills him, mounts him on top, uses the car or truck or—to pull it up.” 

He’d gotten off track; Hannibal prepared to cue him back to his original topic, but Will pressed on, finding the old thread on his own. 

“Crowning achievement,” he reiterated. “White male. Single, or maybe a widower, probably single. Worn-out guy in his sixties, seventies. Charming, social, well-liked. He’s got—he’s got a fully packed social calendar with people he doesn’t care about at all. Has accomplished everything he set out to do, and now that he’s done it, he’s just—” here, Will turned around, eyes a million miles away, cast somewhere past the glass of the windows. “Now he’s just _old_.”

“Neither arrogance nor contrition has led him to do this, but loneliness?”

“Maybe not loneliness,” Will shook his head. “Nobody to care for him in his old age. Grafton’s not exactly known for its wealth.”

Hannibal marveled, following Will’s logic to its conclusion. “His intention is to avoid wasting away in a substandard nursing facility, dying of bed-sores and infection. He would rather go to prison.” Applying for a job. As an inmate.

“American prisoners have it pretty good nowadays,” Will said, his expression twisted in distaste, “some might argue.”

Hannibal’s pen felt feather-light in his hand as he wrote the last of his notes. Excitement bubbled up in his blood. What a truly special thing, Will Graham’s mind, his perception. “How much of this arises from your _instinct_,” Hannibal wondered aloud, “and how much is grounded in the images and datasheets before you?”

Will laughed, a rueful sound, and shook his head. “It’s not magic. I read the evidence, that’s all.”

“And yet some of those assumptions, some of those dots you connect, are invisible to others.” 

“Doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Will countered. “It’s all coming from the same place, I think.” But he did not specify where.

“We ought to wager on what percentage of your theory turns out to be true,” Hannibal teased. “Though I should not be surprised to find it correct in its entirety.”

A faint color rose in Will’s cheeks at this praise, and he turned his back on Hannibal to amble toward the bookshelves, where he proceeded to drag the tips of his fingers along the spines of the books as he passed. “I don’t know about that,” Will argued without any heat. “I’ve been wrong before.”

“Spoken like a man rarely in a position to have to admit it.”

Will turned back around, one of his brows lifted, and parted his lips to speak, but the words died on his tongue when a loud, clear chime from his pocket interrupted him. “I’m so sorry—the call I was expecting.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it aloft. “I’ll—” he gestured toward the waiting room, the way he had the last time he’d had to stop their conversation for a phone call, and proceeded to leave Hannibal alone in the office. 

The door to the waiting room bounced against the frame before swinging back open a little, not fully closed. 

Hannibal wandered over toward it, thinking that perhaps he ought to send Jack a message about his most recent thoughts on the case. His and Will’s. His phone, of course, remained in his coat pocket, hanging just next to the door, still ajar. Will had not bothered to close it. 

“Graham.” A pause; Hannibal couldn’t make out any sounds belonging to the other speaker, but Will didn’t seem the type to have his volume raised to the maximum—not if he kept in regular contact with Jack Crawford. “Matthew,” he said, and then after a beat, “waiting for you to call.”

Hannibal’s hand reached into one pocket on his coat, found it empty. 

“Shift change is a dangerous time,” said Will’s voice, tentative. “Did they cause any trouble?”

A wrinkle on the back of his coat caught his eye. 

A snort from the other room. 

Hannibal smoothed the wrinkle before reaching for the other pocket. 

“Oh?” A much longer pause. “Anyone worth noting?” Another pause. “_Not_ a celebrity, no matter what Lounds says.”

The phone felt cold inside Hannibal’s hand. He pulled it slowly from the pocket, ran his hand down the fabric once more to encourage it to lie flat.

“Thank you for looking into it for me,” said Will. “I have to go.” After a beat, “at a friend’s.”

Hannibal noticed a dog hair had migrated from Will’s jacket to his car coat. His cleaning service came every Friday; he plucked it off, let it fall to the floor. 

“_Chilton_!” Will scoffed. Hannibal backed away from the door, still within hearing distance if he strained his ear a little. “No. Thank you again. I really have to go, Matthew.” An exasperated sound followed, the last of the conversation conducted in the range of Hannibal’s hearing.

When Will swung the door open once again, Hannibal had just returned to the desk. “Everything alright?” Hannibal asked, looking up from his own mobile phone. 

“Yeah, sorry, just—” Will shook his head. “This was the only time he could call.”

While he needed time to reflect on the half of the conversation that he had, incidentally, overheard, the pieces of _this _particular puzzle were not difficult to fit together. “Ah,” Hannibal said. “No further need for distraction, then?”

“Actually,” Will’s sigh, a sweet sound, came accompanied by a deflating of his posture, a desperate sort of smile on his face, “distraction is still perfectly welcome.”

“Not good news, then?”

Will tilted his head in thought, wandered over to his black chair and collapsed into it, as though buckling from under a weight on his shoulders. “I’m—I’m not sure, to be honest.”

Hannibal waited, but Will didn’t clarify. He would push just a little. “I am a good listener, Will,” he said, “if you need a friend.”

For a moment, Hannibal thought he might take him up on the offer. Will’s lips popped open, his expression filled with a vulnerable hope… but then he seemed to shake himself out of it. He shot Hannibal a rueful smile that expressed his gratitude and yet his wish to decline, and then spread his hands over his thighs, moving them back and forth over the denim once. “You gonna tell Jack you came up with all that on your own?”

Hannibal glanced down at the phone in his hand. He had gotten as far as typing in the greeting before Will had returned to the office. “That would be dishonest. Though I am under the impression that you would rather I keep any mention of you out of that conversation.”

“You’re right about that,” Will said, rubbing at his chin. He raised his glass to his lips and took a sip, savoring it for a moment before swallowing. “The bourbon is excellent, by the way,” he said. “Worth the hype, I think.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it.” Hannibal set his phone down—_Jack can wait_—and picked up his own glass to swirl it a little in his hand. “It did not make a perfect pairing for our meal, but I find it pleasant as an after-dinner drink.” A reflexive smile spread on Will’s lips before vanishing a moment later. Perhaps he found Hannibal’s fastidiousness comical. “May I ask, now that you are no longer at Jack’s disposal, how will you fill your time?”

Will leaned his head back against the black leather, cast his eyes up to the ceiling. At this angle, the irises looked almost perfectly clear, so soft the blue. A long sigh raised and lowered his chest, stretching the fabric of his faded red button-down shirt. Clean, but not pressed; the corners of the pockets on both sides of center curled upward a little. Likely put on fresh from the dryer. 

“I’ve got a couple jobs coming up, mechanical work.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose, closed his eyes. “That, and take it easy. Do a little fishing. A little piano, once I’ve got it tuned. Take care of the dogs.”

“I confess I have always been rather fond of animals,” Hannibal said. “But have never had one of my own.”

“Well, if you’re in the market, I’ve got a number you can pick from.”

A surprise. He had not thought Will would part with his animals; though he formed new habits quickly, he seemed the type to avoid change on a larger scale. “A number?” he asked. 

“Seven,” Will laughed.

_Seven_. Hannibal’s stomach twisted.

“Six of which I would consider rehoming, to the right home.”

“That sounds a rather reluctant promise.”

“Well,” he rubbed his stubble, obscuring Hannibal’s view of the private little smile on his face. “It would have to be to the _right_ home. I pick up strays. I’m a little protective of them. They can all stay forever, as far as I’m concerned, but if I meet someone who falls in love with them, I’ll consider it.”

“You must have a rather large house for so many.” He knew this statement to be false. During his initial attempts to engineer a meeting with Will, shortly after hearing the recording of his and Alana’s meeting, he had driven by Will’s property, consumed by curiosity. Granted that he had only gotten a view of the front of the house, from the road as he drove by, but Will’s house erred on the side of _quaint _and _charming_, rather than _spacious_.

“Not large,” Will answered. “But I have enough land for them and it keeps us cozy inside.” His eyes crinkled. “Seven isn’t even the most I’ve ever had. Went as high as nine at one point, when I picked up a pregnant Bichon mix. Puppies find homes quickly.”

“Dogs are uncomplicated animals,” Hannibal noted. “Loyal, affectionate, obedient.” Something in his tone must have tipped Will off to where this line of conversation headed—really, the man was incredibly perceptive—because his little smile faded, and the corners of his lips started to tug downward. “Much simpler to surround oneself with their friendship, than that of one’s fellow man.”

Will’s posture grew stiff. “Alternately, to cultivate a series of superficial relationships,” he spoke slowly, words barbed, “as disposable and interchangeable as the tissues on your table there.”

Hannibal let himself smile, not fighting the upward twitching of his mouth. “And yet man _is_ changeable,” he countered. “Here we are, both striving to change our habits, and foster deeper human connection.”

This comment made Will start before huffing out an amused breath. “Is this how you usually go about building friendships, Doctor Lecter? Lure them in with food and discussions of murder over drinks, with a little psychoanalysis for dessert?”

He could not help but laugh outright at this. “Indeed not. A special approach for a special friend.”

Both brows rose, high enough to be hidden by the curls that fell over his forehead. “Define _special_.”

“That would mean to define _you—_and you, I believe, are not so easily broken down into your component parts.”

Will’s head ducked down toward his shoulder, as though trying to hide his amusement, but it was written clearly into every line in his face. “Behold, a man,” he murmured.

“Behold, a man,” Hannibal agreed, raising his glass in a toast, finding himself delighted beyond expectation. “And not a chicken, plucked or otherwise.”

-+-

“Graham.”

“Will,” Matthew breathed, his free hand tightening around the steering wheel. He couldn’t help sounding a little breathless. This marked a turning point in their relationship, after all. No longer Mr. Graham—now, Will. 

“Matthew.” Will said, voice soft on the line, before falling silent. 

Matthew didn’t mind. He would take the lead if Will needed him to. But first, he strained his ears to see if he could decipher any noise in the background. Nothing. “Were you in the middle of something?”

“Waiting for you to call,” Will answered. 

A gratifying one. “I punched out a little later than usual. Not that he’s ever around this late, but Chilton gets fussy about how we run things at shift change, especially if inmates have caused any trouble during the day. Still makes us late to lunch.” 

“Shift change is a dangerous time,” Will agreed. The room behind him stayed quiet. This late into the evening, that felt odd. He had a million dogs—were they outside? “Did they cause any trouble?”

“Worried about me?” Matthew teased. Will snorted in response. About what Matthew expected; Will wouldn’t want to admit to anything yet. He’d be the type to take it slow. “Not more trouble than usual,” he said, deciding to play it coy a little. Let Will suffer too. Let him ask for what he wanted. “Had a good chat with one of them today.”

“Oh?” 

“Usually he’s the type to give one-word answers, but we’ve got a good rapport, and a good mutual friend. Got a little gossip in.” Will sucked in a breath. Matthew imagined he would sound much like that when heated up, gasping. He toyed with the idea for a moment before tacking on, “we got to talking about celebrities, you know. Whether we’d met any.”

“Anyone worth noting?” 

_Here you go_. The little piece of information Will wanted to know. “Just you,” he answered. 

Truth be told, Eldon Stammets made conversation very difficult unless he felt convinced he had a line, indirect though it may be, to Will. He’d been squirrely, not wanting to talk, not believing Matthew when he’d said that Will had asked this _specifically_. Eventually, with a little incentive—the promise to withhold any future communications from the profiler—he’d opened up. A two-word answer, and a wordy one, for him: _No, never._

Matthew strained his ear, hoping to catch some kind of reaction from Will, to see how he took this news. _Should have FaceTimed_.

“_Not_ a celebrity, no matter what Lounds says,” Will argued instead of answering. Giving nothing away. 

“He can claim he met you before you were famous,” Matthew laughed. “You have to be careful with letting people in, now that you’re in the limelight, Will. Don’t worry, though, it’s not your _fame_ I’m interested in.”

A silence followed that did not share in Matthew’s little joke. “Thank you for looking into it for me,” said Will, clearly done with that line of conversation. “I have to go.” 

“You’re not at home,” Matthew said, trying to keep his tone observational rather than accusatory. “Where are you?”

“At a friend’s.”

_A friend’s_. Will Graham didn’t have _friends_ he went to visit. It took a moment for Matthew to remember that this was a Thursday night. _Oh. He’s with his shrink_. That uptight-looking doctor. The one who was too nosy for his own good—the _questions_ he’d asked Will in the hallway of the BSHCI… “A friend?” Matthew asked, to be met with silence. He’d overstepped. “Is that why Chilton was in such a hurry to leave today? You seeing him on the sly?” he teased, hoping to smooth over the gaffe.

“_Chilton_!” Will scoffed, and Matthew could swear he heard a smile behind it. 

“Anything else you want me to ask _our _mutual friend for you?” He wanted to draw this out. Hearing Will over the phone made it sound like he was speaking directly into his ear. He remembered the softness of Will’s curls, imagined them tickling the side of his face as Will leaned in to speak again. 

But he didn’t seem to want to play along. “No. Thank you again. I really have to go, Matthew.” 

Matthew slumped forward and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel. “You need me to call you in ten? Give you an out to leave?”

An exasperated noise, somewhere between a groan, a snort, and a scoff, came down the line. “I’m hanging up,” Will said. And then he did. 

Matthew chewed on his lip, battling the urge to say ‘fuck it,’ claim some kind of emergency and not make it back to work from lunch. He could drive to that doctor’s office, maybe have a listen through the door. Or drive out to Wolf Trap and wait for Will to get home. _No, no_. _Slow it down_. Will was still playing on the defensive. It would take time for him to open up. To let Matthew in. 

Still, it annoyed him. He’d wanted to talk to Will longer. To get to know him better. 

“Well,” he said, getting back out of his car. “There are other ways.”

Stammets would probably be a tougher shell to crack, of the two of them. But he and Stammets shared a subject of interest. Matthew had hope that he’d get the old man to spill his guts sooner or later. Chilton boasted much the same, but even under the influence of the drugs he administered for therapy, Stammets kept his cards close to his vest.

_Then again,_ he thought as he entered through the employee entrance, _with or without the drugs, nobody talks to Chilton._

He gave himself some time. Went into the break-room, scarfed down a package of pop-tarts, a slim jim, and an orange soda, and spent the rest of his lunch perusing old TattleCrime articles featuring Will. He must have read Lounds’ exposé on Will’s past a million times. The woman didn’t have a lick of proof to back her theories, but he had to agree with her assessment, regardless. 

_Angelic face, _Matthew thought, calling up the memory of those blue eyes as they peered up at him over the edge of his beer. _Devil in disguise. _Will was a killer. _Not just a killer. He’s like me_. Matthew knew it deep in his bones. 

Patience lasted for another hour, until he found his route taking him past Stammets’ cell. He would have kept walking. But then Stammets stopped him, calling, “Matthew Brown,” and slamming his hands against the bars the moment Matthew passed his line of sight. 

In true Stammets fashion, he said nothing else. 

Being here had changed the man. Matthew could remember when he’d come in: he’d been fairly robust, wiry muscles, skin tanned from his outdoor labor. Now he was sharp angles and long shadows, pale and wan, sickly.

“Still counting the days?” Matthew asked.

Stammets stared. _As good as a ‘yes’_. How long now, before his trial? A month or so, until he would see Will again. 

“I had an interesting conversation over my lunch break,” he said, stepping closer to the prisoner. 

“Will?”

“Sent your regards along to him,” Matthew said, producing his phone from his pocket and flashing the call log in Stammets’ face. 

“Did he—” he paused, his blue eyes wide behind his glasses, knuckles turning white from his grip on the bars. “Did he say anything?”

“He’s at a friend’s,” Matthew said, noting the way this made Stammets’ brow tick down, his lips tense. This obviously hadn’t pleased him as much as receiving the napkin with Will’s handwriting on it. _‘Soon’_. Stammets had held that flimsy napkin tight to his chest, his lunch tray forgotten in light of this communication. The napkin had probably ended up hidden wherever the inmate stashed his contraband; when Matthew had come back around to pick up the tray, the grease-spotted brown paper had disappeared.

“A friend,” Stammets repeated.

“The shrink,” Matthew said. “Lecter. His handler from the FBI.” Stammets’ eyebrows drew further and further down his forehead with each progressive statement. “You don’t seem impressed.”

“No boundaries,” Stammets said, and backed off from the bars to sit, still as a statue, back at his bunk. 

“Boundaries?” Matthew asked. _What? _“You know this guy?”

“He came too,” Stammets answered, staring at the wall opposite him, the white-painted cement blocks, hands relaxed and unmoving on his thighs. 

It took a moment for Matthew to piece this one together. “You mean when I brought Will by?” Again, Stammets’ silence was as good as confirmation, but Matthew couldn’t recall anything that the shrink had done that showed a lack of boundaries. He’d been nosy, yeah, but backed off quickly enough—and either way, that was before they’d stopped by Stammets’ cell. _No boundaries._ No, he was all stiff propriety and long-winded speech. “What did I miss?”

Stammets glanced up at him, then went back to staring at the wall. He said nothing else, no matter how Matthew cajoled him. 

Their discussion stayed with him, eating at him, for the next several hours. Stammets’ refusal to cooperate annoyed him too, but not more than the _not knowing_. Lecter couldn’t have said anything, Matthew would have heard it. So he must have done something, then. 

“If he did something,” Matthew decided, “there’s video.” This conclusion in mind, he couldn’t focus on anything else. So he waved Barney down in the hallway and announced that he needed to take his fifteen early. 

“Everything alright?” Barney asked, voice gentle, worried. 

“Nothing that fifteen minutes won’t fix,” Matthew answered. He excused himself, ran up to the security office and blessed his good fortune when he saw who had been assigned to man the screens tonight. “Hey man,” he greeted the night guard with a familiarity that belied the fact that he couldn’t for the life of him remember the guy’s name. “I gotta call my girl quick. You wanna take a fifteen and I’ll watch the screens for ya?” 

Jacobs_, _according to the nametag, took the offer with a smile. This had become something of a routine for them—Jacobs would get an extra break while Matthew got the security office to himself. His invented girlfriend always had ruffled feathers that needed soothing; best done, recently, by watching and rewatching Abel Gideon’s interview. He usually fast-forwarded through the slog, sat back in the chair and watched the bits that started with Will getting up to pace around the room, interrupting the doctor to ask his own questions. 

Today, a different video was in order. No sound, unfortunately, but that didn’t matter this time around. It took a little digging to find the recording he needed. He didn’t remember the exact time, and the cell block that Stammets lived on had a lot of action in the halls that day. But eventually, he found it. 

On the screen, Will stopped in his tracks, mouth moving, words running a million miles an hour. _This was when Will couldn’t help himself_, Matthew remembered, _when he shredded through Gideon’s story_. A little justice for Elizabeth Shell. Matthew hadn’t minded her—she gave him a ride once last winter when it got so cold his car wouldn’t start.

The talking stopped. All three of them jumped. Eldon Stammets appeared—his body and face weren’t visible, but his grip on the bars showed on the screen. A brief moment of tension. A few more words exchanged. As a group, they began walking again. 

_Nothing. So what could Stammets be ref—_

And then it happened. Matthew led the way down the hall, Will and Lecter following. Lecter turned toward Will, and then his hand came up and settled in the middle of Will’s back. It stayed there for the duration of their time on screen. Matthew had to find the footage from the camera in the next successive hallways to find the moment when Lecter _finally _pulled his hand away, just before they made it back to the front lobby.

He grit his teeth.

A glance at his watch had him hurrying to return everything to its proper place, and make sure that all of the screens were showing the live feed, in time for Jacobs to come back from his unexpected break. “Thanks, man,” Matthew said, tossing him a relieved smile.

“High-maintenance girlfriend,” Jacobs observed. “Not that I mind, if you’re gonna keep giving me extra breaks because of her.” He laughed, not noticing that his joke fell flat, and shut the office door behind him. 

For his part, Matthew started his walk back to the cell block he’d been put in charge of for the night. With Barney keeping an eye on things, the inmates would be on their best behaviour. Still, he didn’t need any trouble. This job mattered to him now. Now that he had access to the one thing Will wanted, that nobody else could give him.

He didn’t let himself think about what he’d seen on the video until he had a private moment, once his inmates had fallen asleep. 

_No boundaries. _

He gnawed on his lip, exhaled slowly through his nose. Doctor Lecter, with his hand on Will’s back. Matthew clenched his teeth, flexed his jaw. 

_A problem_, he decided, hearing Will’s voice echo in his head, calling the doctor ‘a friend.’ _A problem that needs fixing. _

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a nice long conversation with metricmadscience, beta reader extraordinaire, working out some plot points that needed finessing. OMG you guys, you need to be so grateful for her. I don't think this story would be half as fun without her input.  
At least, I'm hoping it's fun, lol.  
Let me know what you think, your running theories, what you'd like to happen, what you're expecting will happen... Big stuff planned for the next few chapters! See you again with the next update on 2/20!


	13. Some gambles pay off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 26-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Thirteen

_Some _gambles pay off.

-+-

Will’s lashes fluttered open, his eyes landing on his bedside clock that blinked just past eight in the morning. He yawned and stretched, raising his arms over his head and feeling the delightful pull of muscles in his shoulders and back, his spine popping pleasantly two or three times as he pressed his hands away from himself. 

He felt rested, relaxed, for just those first few breaths, until one dull thump inside of his head woke him from his calm. 

_Home_. 

A moment ago, he’d been in Dr. Lecter’s office, the night still dark outside, his glass of bourbon still cradled in his hand. 

But now, this was _his bed_. At eight in the morning.

Had he gotten drunk…?

When he rocketed to his feet, he felt stable. Clear-headed, balanced, not hungover in the least. He flitted about the apartment, looking for the tell-tale signs of a drunken homecoming, but there were no clothes strewn about the floor; he easily located his phone, wallet, and keys; and though he did have a pounding headache, there wasn’t any booze on his breath.

Granted, they’d made some headway on that bottle of Pappy, but he didn’t remember ever feeling _inebriated,_ and he highly doubted that Dr. Lecter would have let him drive all the way to Wolf Trap if he had any suspicion or concern that Will was beyond pleasantly buzzed. 

So, not a drunken blackout.

But he couldn’t remember getting home. Couldn’t remember leaving the office.

His stomach rumbled. 

Will worked his jaw, trying to think back and focus as he puttered around the kitchen, cracked some eggs into a pan and stirred them around. 

What was the last thing he remembered talking about? They’d circled back to the totem, after Matthew called. And then, somehow, as things did, the subject turned to the Chesapeake Ripper. Maybe they had been talking about scale? About restraint? And then—he remembered, vaguely, the taste of bitter coffee, the warmth from the fire Dr. Lecter had lit. 

And then nothing. No recollection of cold, or of the humming of his engine. Worse, no idea _at all_ what they had discussed afterward. God—there had been a moment there, right after Matthew called, where the prospect of talking to Dr. Lecter, _really_ talking, about the things that ailed him, had felt unaccountably alluring. 

Like he could spill his guts in front of him and still expect that courteous, kind, non-judgmental treatment. That he would listen, the way nobody else ever seemed to. But then Will reminded himself that even the imperturbable Dr. Lecter—for he had yet to see him reach his threshold for things he would not or could not tolerate—had his limits. He even briefly considered the idea of giving him an edited version so that he could lessen the weight on his chest. But he thought better of it in the end. 

At least, as far as he could remember. 

And if he couldn’t remember, that must mean that he’d lost time. 

“But I’ve been getting better,” he mumbled around a mouthful of eggs. _This shouldn’t still be happening. _

He ate his breakfast without tasting it, bundled himself up in his coat without bothering to shower, and headed outside to his shed to get some work in. He didn’t want to think anymore, and he knew a sure-fire cure for the inevitable thought spiral. 

He should be able to make good headway on the revolver today. 

Of course, the thought of the revolver reminded him of his conversation with Matthew Brown. _So Eldon doesn’t know the Ripper. Doesn’t mean the Ripper doesn’t know him_. He gnawed at his lips, looking down at the tidily organized bits and pieces of his current project. He wouldn’t make any breakthroughs on _that _puzzle, not until he had more information, so he might as well focus on the work in front of him. 

And he did. He managed to concentrate on his task for the better part of four hours, with a quick break in the middle. When he eventually stopped, he did so because his fingers were feeling numb, his joints protesting any movement in the cold. Another space-heater would solve the problem, probably. His father had given him this one, and he’d bought it a good eight years before Will took it off his hands. 

When he got into the house, the sound of his phone ringing greeted him. He hadn’t even realized he’d left it on his night-stand. But his fingers were still cold, and he needed to clean off the dogs. Whoever needed him would leave a voicemail. 

But they didn’t, of course. After a momentary reprieve, a minute of silence during which Will finished wiping Fonda’s paws and moved on to Buster’s, the phone started ringing again. 

Nobody called him with that urgency, that insistence, except Jack. 

Had the Ripper struck again? Will darted over to his nightstand, leaving a puzzled Penny standing, paw still held aloft in the air, waiting to be released into the house. _Yep. Jack._ He answered without delay, feet already taking him back to the door to finish with the dogs. “Graham.”

“I’ve called six times. It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“I left my phone in the house,” Will said. 

“That’s why it’s a _mobile phone_,” Jack ground out. “It’s meant to go with you. If you’re not going to take it with you, maybe consider getting another one for the shed?”

Will grunted. He released Penny’s paw and she darted inside, Winston prancing in behind her, ready for his turn. “Sorry about that,” he said, instead of dignifying the latter suggestion with an answer. Like _hell_ would he ever keep a phone in the shed. “What’s the emergency?”

“No emergency,” Jack bit out, still prickly.

“You called six times, and it’s not an emergency.” As soon as the words left his lips, he realized why Jack had called. _Shit. Shit._

“I talked to Doctor Bloom,” Jack said, confirming Will’s theory and ruining his day. “Freddie Lounds really has it out for you, huh?”

The levity in his voice, grudging thought it may be, gave Will some hope. “Seems like it,” he answered, not bothering to wonder why. He already knew. Freddie Lounds liked getting her way, and she did not take kindly to those that didn’t cooperate with her. She couldn’t get what she wanted from him—a juicy take on life in Eldon Stammets’ lair—so she set out to make his life miserable. 

“Nothing else to say about it?” Jack asked, in that domineering way he had, so that it sounded more like, _what do you have to say about it_?

“Nothing you don’t already know,” Will sighed, getting up at last and heading over to plop down onto the chair in front of his desk. He still had an unfinished fly sitting in the vise; he hadn’t touched his fishing tools and fly-tying equipment for months. Not since the autumn set in. “My coworkers on the force didn’t like me,” he said, trailing a finger over the fluffy red and black spotted feather.

“That’s not what I’m referring to,” Jack said, frustration seeping into his voice. 

“I disclosed what happened during the screening interviews,” Will said. “HR cleared me. They knew.”

“But I didn’t,” Jack said. 

“I didn’t realize you _needed _to know.”

“After what happened with Stammets!”

“Eldon Stammets and Lenny Marron had nothing to do with one another,” Will spun in his chair, facing the living room. 

“They may not, but it does raise a question, Will,” Jack said after a beat.

“What question is that, Jack?” 

_‘That you’re a serial killer in your own right.’ _

_‘That you attract them, the honey for the flies.’ _

_Or: ‘that you’re too damaged to continue in this line of work’...? _

“Don’t tell me you’re buying Freddie’s schlock.” 

“I’m _not_.” Jack breathed out a sigh. “Doctor Bloom insists that leaving this kind of trauma unaddressed is going to leave you unfit for duty.”

He’d called it, weeks before_. Jack’s already formed his ideas about me; he won’t care unless it keeps me from working. _“I respect Doctor Bloom’s professional opinion,” Will said. The next words from his mouth felt low, but they needed to be said. “But she’s not my psychiatrist, and she doesn’t know all of the details of my case history.”

“You’ve been taking care of things,” Jack concluded. “With Doctor Lecter?”

A hand dove into his hair to tug at it. _Why does this keep coming up_? “Doctor Lecter isn’t my psychiatrist either,” Will corrected him. “But what happened with Lenny Marron happened years ago. I’ve taken care of that. And as for Stammets—” he sighed. He felt like a broken record. “Whatever there is to deal with, I’m dealing with it.” Not a lie, but then, not the complete truth either. It didn’t matter. Jack wanted to know only one thing, and Will would say it for him happily: “When the Ripper strikes again, you won’t need to worry about me keeping it together, Jack.” 

This seemed to mollify him; Jack let loose a low hum, a thoughtful sound. “You need to let me know if anything changes. I can’t have you out there if you’re not in top form.”

“I’ll let you know, if anything changes,” Will repeated. 

“Keep your phone on you, Graham,” Jack instructed, by way of a farewell.

When he hung up, Will leaned further back into his chair, let it spin around once. He let his face relax, closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. He’d been expecting that call for a while; what a relief to finally have it behind him. Now he wouldn’t hear from Jack again, hopefully, until the next Ripper kill. Or, until the next time a new serial killer debuted—someone frightening enough to call in the big guns. 

His skin still felt cold—the sweat gathering at his hairline felt as though it might freeze from touching it—his nose still shone bright red, his knuckles still creaked. He got up and headed upstairs to the shower. 

A few canine ears lifted, then a few heads. Will looked up from his worktable, out through the window in the shed, but from this vantage point he couldn’t see anything. _No engine noise. A hybrid or electric car. Alana, maybe?_ He set down the polishing cloth and the decorative grip plate he’d been cleaning, and with a grunt of exertion, got to his feet. 

His numbed toes prickled back to life as he stood; he winced with each step. The dogs ran out the moment he pushed the door open, like a dam bursting, and ran to prance to the end of the drive, tails wagging in greeting at the sight of the visitor. Will recognized the shape of the headlights. 

Alana, after all. 

Will pulled his hat down around his ears, shut the shed door behind him before heading out to greet her. She’d gotten out of her car, but stayed next to the driver door and waited for him to reach the gate. In the light of her headlights, the red of her coat and her cheeks made him feel warmer, just looking at it. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hey.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat. She studied him for a moment, her lips pinching downward before she spoke again. “Hope I’m not intruding on anything.”

“No,” he mimicked her, tucking his fingers into his pockets, finding the inside still cold despite the shelter from the wind. “Just taking a break from work. Let me get the gate.”

“I’ll just leave the car here,” she said, waiting patiently as he unlocked the gate to let her through. “You’re working late today,” she observed. 

Dark already, but five o’clock hardly counted as late for a workday. “I’m pretty close to finishing this project,” he said. “Was hoping to finish it before the weekend.” He locked the gate behind her. “You want to come in?”

“Sure,” she said. He hadn’t expected her to accept, somehow, so there was a hitch in his step when he started down the drive. “I’m counting six,” she said. “But it’s hard to tell with them running around like that.”

“Seven, actually.” 

“That’s a lot of dogs.”

“Not enough, probably,” he answered, fishing his keys out from his pocket. “Still a lot of strays out there, need a home.” He opened the door for her. “Go on in,” he said. “Takes me a minute to clean them all up.”

Alana preceded him into the house. Will focused on the dogs, but he heard the slow pace of her steps, noted the lack of sounds like unzipping or fabric moving against fabric—she’d kept her coat on. _Not planning a long stay, then_. She kept up the slow pace, her shoes sounding more distant, then coming closer yet again. He didn’t want to know what she’d think of his living arrangements.

It would be just like Jack to say something to her about the conversation that they’d had. He could kick himself. _I respect her opinion but she’s not my shrink_. He should have come up with a better way of phrasing that. 

Once he’d finished cleaning up the puppy parade, he got up off his knees to face her. The soft indulgence in the smile on her lips surprised him. He switched on one of the nearby lamps, eyes following her greedily as she started moving around his space again. He felt a momentary relief fall over him when he remembered that he’d made his bed this morning. 

He’d been keeping things tidier since the cleaning spree. A good habit to have gotten into. 

“Can I get you anything to drink?” He asked. “Water, beer, whiskey…?”

She laughed, shook her head. Her dark curls bounced attractively around her face, then settled just exactly where they’d started. “Oh, no, thank you,” she said. “Just a quick stop. I don’t want to keep you.”

“Keep me?” he asked. She nodded, expression benign, and he caught up to the implication. Thursday night. Right. _This again_. “I didn’t plan on going anywhere tonight,” he said. A little braver, then, “if you wanted to stay long enough for a drink.”

“Maybe a water,” she answered, still making no move to take off her coat. “Thanks.”

Like a brick over his head, it hit him. _Is this a welfare visit? _His teeth gnashed together as he walked into the kitchen, grabbed a clean glass and filled it from the tap. He handed it over to her, indignation and recklessness warring in his belly. _Is that really why she’s here?_ He didn’t trust himself to try and read her just now—too much hope that he was wrong, too much suspicion to prove him right. He couldn’t look, not when he knew he didn’t have the objectivity to _see_. 

“What can I do for you?” he asked instead, going for lightly teasing. 

“I didn’t feel like we left things on a good note, the last time we talked,” she answered, fingers tightening and loosening on her glass. “I wanted to apologize if I crossed a line.”

“Thank you,” he said. So maybe Jack hadn’t talked to her about what he’d said. “I’m sorry too—I was defensive and short with you.”

“Lashing out?” she asked, idly, though there was an assessing quality to the lines around her eyes. 

“Been getting attacked from all sides, lately,” he said, instead. “Just tired, I think.” 

“I was concerned about you,” Alana protested. 

Will licked his lips, averted his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that, Will,” she said. “But I wonder.” She had that look again, like she was studying him under a microscope. 

He wiped a hand across his forehead, and, finding it sweaty again, swiped his hand on his jeans to dry it. He knew he didn’t look well. But he was getting better. Feeling clearer. “I appreciate it, that you worry about me,” he said, at length. “Maybe it makes me a little hopeful.”

Her eyebrows rocketed upward. “Hopeful?”

Will took a step closer, still far enough not to be imposing. “That maybe if I asked you to dinner, you’d say yes.”

Alana’s expression melted into something warm, sweet. Just for a moment. And then she sucked in a breath, and the way she held it in her chest before speaking told Will exactly what she intended to say. “Will,” she sighed. “I won’t deny that I’m attracted to you,” she said. “But I think… I think that would be a bad idea.”

“A bad idea?” he asked, his smile rigid on his face, his words gushing sluggish from his mouth like blood from a wound. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but, uh... never been called a bad idea before.” 

“It’s not that, it’s—” she took a step toward him, something pleading in her eyes, and he took another step forward to meet her. Her hand landed on his arm, not expecting him to fill the space, but—

But once they were touching, somehow, they became electrified. Her fingers closed around his arm, and he raised the other to hold the small of her back. Their movements came slow, like dancing, but _charged—_a little pressure on her back and she pressed herself to him. 

Her blue eyes shone, sparks of self doubt and breathless anticipation making them luminous. And then, her dark lashes fluttered closed. 

How could he resist? 

Will leaned in, touched his lips to hers, and they were everything he’d imagined. Soft, warm. Pliant. He closed his eyes and held her to him.

For a long moment, they lingered over that kiss. The sweet fragrance of her perfume filled his nose; his head nearly spun with it. The pads of his fingers skimmed over the skin of her neck as he reached up to tangle them in her hair. 

Her hands, clutching at the front of his shirt, released it, and smoothed the fabric down. She pulled her lips away from his, and touched her forehead to his. 

“Will,” she breathed.

He kissed her again. 

“Alana—” he said when they parted, and the press of her fingers against his chest at last put some distance between their bodies, though Will’s hands remained where they’d settled. 

“Will,” she repeated, and her blue eyes glimmered in the low light as she raised them to look into his. 

He glanced down at her lips, hoping; then looked into her eyes, and—

His hands unwound from her hair, and dropped to his sides. 

_Oh._

-+-

“I saw you, you know,” said Mr. Froideveaux, leaning forward in his seat, the button on his suit jacket straining as the material pulled, protesting the movement. “At the Old World Delicatessen.”

Hannibal stared for a moment before looked down at his notepad and scribbled another note to himself. Franklyn seemed to be transitioning from veiled invitations—in hopes of avoiding rejection—to attempting to engineer meetings outside of the office. 

“I discovered that we are Cheese Folk,” he went on, when Hannibal said nothing. “The aged gouda you picked up. Did you take any home? It had a nice smell, pungent, you know. I took a half pound. Just to sample it.” 

Franklyn had the sort of personality that could not stomach silence. As such, Hannibal utilized silence rather often to induce him to speak. Though, of course, watching Franklyn twitch and breathe as he attempted to restrain himself from talking did not provide Hannibal with any real satisfaction, it conferred the benefit of sparing him the need to respond to some of his more inane chatter, his awkward advances. 

Silences between Hannibal and Will, by contrast, had yet to feel awkward. Hannibal could watch the man’s profile in silent contemplation, and desire that the silence could last forever, while hoping just as fervently that in the next moment his lips might part to speak.

Neruda may have said it best—_It pleases me when you grow silent, as though you were absent,_

_and you hear me from afar, and my voice does not touch you. _

“I told you about my friend Tobias. I was with him. He came along, even though he doesn’t eat dairy. I wanted to come over and introduce him, but I lost sight of you.” He paused, fingers steepling a little, head craning forward just a touch. “It’s nice when your friends get to know each other.”

Eyes narrowing, Hannibal tilted his head. “I am your psychiatrist, Franklyn. I give you perspective, clarity. I am not your friend.” 

“Can’t you be both?” The meekness in his voice spoke to hopes dashed. 

Hannibal considered Alana’s reaction to his announcement that he and Will were spending time together socially; the appalled expression on her countenance. In Will’s case, he might make an exception, but he had no need to—Will was rather adamantly not his patient. A special challenge, then: how to foster the intimacy, the closeness and trust, the sway that a psychiatrist had over their patient, in a relationship of ostensible equals? Will did not _need_ him. Not yet. Nor did he desire from Hannibal what so many others did; it seemed Hannibal’s only appeal to Will Graham lay in their conversations. 

A novel prospect. 

“That is not possible, no,” Hannibal answered before the silence stretched too long, before it led Franklyn to believe that he would actually consider the prospect. “Nor would I desire to be.”

“What…?” Franklyn’s mouth went slack. 

“A social relationship would prevent me from being able to provide you with the support and guidance that you seek. I value you as a patient. And that relationship is one based on defined roles.” He paused, crossing his legs in the other direction. _Defined roles_, he mused, thinking again of Will, and what role he might play to win the profiler’s favor. 

“What role does Tobias serve in your life?”

“Tobias?” Franklyn seemed lost. 

Hannibal battled the desire to smile. “Do you desire Tobias sexually?”

The lab that Mr. Price, Mr. Zeller, and Ms. Katz worked in smelled strongly of ammonia when he walked in. None of the bodies remained in sight, though the poster-sized photograph of the totem remained; the bodies were recently stored, then, and the lab recently cleaned. He trailed a finger along the edge of the closest table, pleased to find it dry.

“Doctor Lecter,” greeted Mr. Price. The three agents were huddled around a sheet of paper at the back table. “Excellent tim-”

“We followed up on your lead—” Mr. Zeller interrupted, earning an exasperated sigh from Mr. Price, “familial connections between the vics? Turns out there’s more than one.” 

“The first victim,” butted in Mr. Price during Mr. Zeller’s pause for effect. “A Fletcher Marshall—”

“Beaten to death!” Mr. Zeller chimed. 

“—and four years later, Eleanor Marshall, death via car accident—”

“And they _don’t _have a connection to one another, except via marriage,” Mr. Zeller finished. 

_Friends, coworkers_, he mused, watching the dynamic between the two men as they cut each other off. _And yet, not quite the right template._

As one, all three of the forensic team turned to stare at him. _Wondering if I will make the correct deduction_. But how could he not? He and Will had discovered it already. “This would make Joel Summers,” he said—the final body—“their son.”

Mr. Zeller clapped once loudly in congratulations, and Ms. Katz picked up the thread. “Born early 1972, a few months after Fletcher Marshall’s death. Adopted about a year after his mother passed, by the Summers family.” She smiled now, holding up the piece of paper that the three of them had been staring at prior to his arrival. “But never mind what the birth certificate says, _Fletcher Marshall_ is not Joel Summers’ biological father.”

“Quite the family drama,” Hannibal hummed. 

“None of the other victims have any familial ties, biological or otherwise,” Mr. Price added. “Makes you wonder what the killer had against the Marshalls, though, huh?”

“An extramarital affair resulting in a child…” Hannibal hummed, as though considering, giving just the tiniest bit of a show. “And Mrs. Fletcher passing the child off as her husband’s, after his death.” Ms. Katz’s mouth popped open, following his train of thought, and she let out a disbelieving _‘no’ _as she glanced over at the other two, still puzzling through it beside her. “It seems rather pedestrian,” Hannibal conceded, “but I am inclined to believe that the truth of Joel Summers’ parentage may point us to our killer.”

“You’re pegging the killer as his father?” This from Mr. Zeller, whose head tilted the side, so deep his ear nearly touched his shoulder. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Father and son bookend the killer’s body of work. This indicates their identities are important to the killer. He likely imagined that in murdering Joel Summers, he destroyed Fletcher Marshall’s legacy. He could not have known that father and son were not truly father and son; that his role in Joel Summers’ life ought to have been a different one.” He paused, taking in the owl-eyed expressions on Mr. Price and Mr. Zeller’s face. Ms. Katz’s face, however, held laughter; her brow raised a little in challenge. _She has caught on_. “Was anyone convicted for Mr. Marshall’s murder?” he asked, looking her in the eye.

Now, Ms. Katz smiled. “Nobody. Suspicion around a family friend. Questioned twice, but cleared. A Lawrence Wells.”

The team appeared satisfied, looking at each other, exchanging smug smiles. 

“He still lives in Grafton,” Hannibal concluded.

Her brows shot up. “Yeah.”

Hannibal straightened from where he had leaned against one of the tables. “Then back to Grafton we go.”

“You stopping through Wolf Trap on the way?” Ms. Katz asked, voice low so that the other gentlemen would not hear. 

“Why?” Hannibal asked, not masking his humor at this gentle call-out. “Did you have an errand that needs running there?”

Ms. Katz laughed lightly. “I hear there’s a good psychic service out there is all,” she teased. 

“Ah, no need to stop, then,” Hannibal replied, keeping his face stern. “I keep them on call.”

Jack insisted they carpool to Grafton, to discuss the details of the case and iron out their approach. Hannibal listened to him walk through a number of approaches before tuning out; assuming that Will’s conclusions were correct, Mr. Wells would be more than happy to be caught out for his crimes. 

Attending the arrest held little appeal, except on two fronts: the opportunity to inform Mr. Wells of his error, the destruction of his legacy; and then, of course, to go down the list of Will Graham’s insights, and determine what percentage had been correct in the end. 

Lawrence Wells’ home looked like a set piece: the archetype of the dilapidated homestead. An overgrown lawn, littered with refuse and abandoned parts and pieces, the grass bisected by crumbling cement walkway that led from the curb to the front porch. Paint chipped off the siding, had been gnawed off the corners by animals sharpening their teeth. The smell of rotting wood filled the air; a dark patch on the roofing, missing shingles in various places, a likely culprit for the odor. The iron railing, rusted, bolts loosened by the passage of time, squeaked as it moved with the wind. In one window, plastic sheeting covered a hole where the glass had been broken but left in the frame.

The man himself suited the home. He looked a good ten years over his age—seventy, according to the paperwork—and like his clothing, weathered and worn. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, leading them into the house. His possessions had, for the most part, been boxed up, though their impressions remained, in the footprints left behind on the shelving and the floor that had not been covered in dust. Mr. Wells settled into a patched, black leather-look recliner, and kicked up the foot-rest. 

No hospitality whatsoever.

“Then you know why we’re here,” Jack said, after a quick glance at Hannibal. He had not planned for Mr. Wells to admit to his crimes. Hannibal could have enlightened him that this matched his going theory—thanks again, to his discussion with Will Graham—but had decided it would be much more interesting to see how he would handle the situation unrehearsed. 

“Of course,” sighed Mr. Wells, an impatient tapping at the armrest of his chair. “I made it obvious, didn’t I? After so many years of remaining invisible—I don’t have the fight in me anymore. I wanted you to find me.”

“Is this a confession? For the murder of Joel Summers and the others?”

“And _sixteen others_,” the man corrected, staring pointedly at Jack. 

Hannibal smiled. Mr. Wells had some vanity, after all. 

“Why did you kill them?” Jack asked. Hannibal shifted his feet, redirecting the energy that wanted to roll his eyes. 

“Joel Summers should never have been. And as for the rest…” he shrugged. “What reason do I need?”

“But you have one,” Jack insisted. “A reason for killing them.”

Mr. Wells looked down at his hands; liver-spotted, wrinkled, knobby-knuckled fingers twined tight. This may be what he wanted, but having to explain himself appeared to be costing him. 

“There’s something beautiful about sitting in the ball of silence at a funeral, all of those people around you, and knowing you made it happen. I could smile and wave at a lady, chew the fat in church, knowing I’d killed her husband.”

_One more point for Will Graham._

“You’re going to die in prison.”

“Do I look wealthy to you? Prison will be a luxury next to the sort of retirement home I can afford. And I certainly won’t be forgotten there. I’m securing my legacy.”

_And another._

“Your legacy,” Hannibal repeated, chiming in at last. “One you might have passed to your children.” He stepped forward. “Tell me, did you have an affair with Eleanor Marshall before you killed her husband?”

Wells was an intelligent man. He caught on to the subtext of this question almost immediately—Hannibal could see it, in the way his face went slightly slack, the way his skin blanched, his fingers clenched. 

Trust Jack, however, to restate the obvious. “You thought the woman you loved was having Fletcher Marshall’s baby when she was really having yours.” 

Hannibal couldn’t resist—the pain shining in the man’s eyes called to him to drive in the final nail. “You have not secured your legacy, Mr. Wells. You have destroyed it.”

He reflected on the route back to Quantico that Will Graham’s interpretations of the evidence had managed accuracy on most counts. Perhaps his only error had been one by technicality; the first and final victims were not, in fact, father in son, although in the eyes of Lawrence Wells, they had been. 

How should he reward Will? He had mentioned a wager, after all, though no terms had been laid out in the end. 

He got out of Jack’s car with assurances that he would submit his final report by Friday afternoon, before crossing the parking lot to his own vehicle. With over an hour until his arrival at home, he had hoped to call Will, extend an invitation for a debrief over drinks, but seeing the time now disappointed his plans. 

Nearing six, it would be far too late to extend the invitation. Although—now that they were _friendly_, perhaps a late invitation would not be outside the bounds of what was considered acceptable. He considered it for a moment before deciding to err on the side of politeness. It being a Thursday, Will might yield to the influence of habit and find his way to Hannibal’s office, regardless. 

When Will had come to Hannibal’s office the other night, he seemed more rested, cogent, clear-headed. Until about half-way through the evening. Then, his mind seemed to drift, and he fell mostly silent. Hannibal hadn’t minded. He had sat down with his sketch-book as Will sat, transfixed by the fire, apparently insensate to the sounds and movements in the room around him. He rarely spoke, and the one comment he made during the period of stillness between them lingered in Hannibal’s memory. 

_‘I see it inside you, too.’_

To whom had this curious utterance been spoken? And what could the context have been?

For the duration of the drive, Hannibal found himself unsettled, anticipation tingling in his chest. He had to remind himself to ease off the accelerator a time or two, when he realized that he’d been pushing it down with more pressure than normal. 

The last few turns before he arrived at the neighborhood in which he kept his office made him almost grumble with annoyance: one red light after another, and then he never seemed to be the first to reach the four-way stops on the local roads. He zeroed in on the top step outside his office door, but nobody sat there, waiting. 

He had, on past occasions, observed Will through the windows, sitting in his car, waiting until just before time to cross the street to the front door. As all the lights in his office were off at present, Will might be doing this again. Sheltering from the elements as he waited. He scanned the various cars parked along the curb, but the run-down Volvo did not number among them. 

Hannibal’s jaw ticked. His fingers tightened on the wheel for a moment, before he made them relax. Will may love and surround himself with dogs, but his personality bore greater resemblance to that of a hardened street-cat. He would come around when it suited him. Perhaps the inducement of food might help to make it more of a routine, but his trust and affection would be hard-won. Hannibal had made strides here, but he had a ways yet to go. 

His expectations had been premature. Based on a template of behaviour that did not apply in this instance. An error easily corrected. 

With only a fifteen minute drive to his house, Hannibal centered himself with thoughts of how he might encourage Will’s attachment. He toyed with various possibilities, many of these revolving around his deteriorating physical condition. Properly nurtured, it might prove an effective vehicle for lowering the man’s defenses. 

All of these plans disappeared into the ether, however, when he turned the Bentley down the street in front of his house. Normally, he would drive down the alley on the right side to access his garage door. Tonight, he instead pulled into the closest empty spot, parallel parking between his neighbor’s rather ostentatious Maserati behind him, and the tired sedan in front. 

His car door shut with a thump behind him.

He crossed the street. 

That little spark of anticipation lit once more, an ember turned to fire. 

For who else should be sitting on the stoop outside his house, face wan and posture defeated, than Will Graham? 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, but the next one is going to be worth it, _as I am sure you can already tell._
> 
> In case you wondered, the Neruda quote is from Poema 15, and the whole first stanza reads: 
> 
> It pleases me when you grow silent, as though you were absent,  
and you hear me from afar, and my voice does not touch you.  
It seems that your eyes have flown from you  
and it seems that a kiss has closed your mouth.
> 
> This is the translation I picked (It took me a while to find one that I liked for the first few lines! I’d never read it in English before and I was surprised at how some translations do it so little justice): http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/358921#ixzz6DhF5TW33
> 
> Also, just an update on the writing buffer: I have chapters 14 and 15 written, 16 is in progress. I also have two other chapters that appear further down the timeline written, and another in progress. So I’m 2.5 ahead, chronologically, with another 2.5 written for the nebulous future. The editing happens closer to release, though, so that can hold things up if a lot of changes need to be made. (What happened with chapter… was it 7?)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed this one! I bet you have some ideas of what to expect for chapter 14? Next one updates on 3/5!


	14. A Mutual Friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 33-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Fourteen

A Mutual Friend.

-+-

Will jumped to his feet, legs like coiled springs beneath him, when he at last noticed Hannibal. 

Perhaps the force of habit _had _begun to exert itself, bringing him to Hannibal’s door for another Thursday night in each other’s company, but the change in location indicated that the cause lay elsewhere. What turn of events had brought Will not to his office, but to the front door of his home, instead? Hannibal looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs, pocketing his delight and anticipation and arranging his brow in a concerned furrow. “Will?”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, shoving his hands into his pockets, angling his body toward the railing of the stairs, as though he might leap over it any second and make his escape. “Coming to your house—"

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Hannibal said, savoring the scent of the nervousness leaking from Will’s pores. _He truly doubts his reception_. _I ought to make it clear that such visits are not unwelcome._ He advanced up the stairway.

Will took a step back, but not to the side. Not out of the way. _Just begging to be sent away._

“Allow me to get the door,” Hannibal said, and Will at last relented, scooting to the left, yielding the space. The keys were cold in Hannibal’s grasp, the air sweet with the promise of snow. Will, beside him, smelled like a pot boiling over, and despite the cold, heat rolled off his body like the burner lit beneath one.

He unlocked the door, pushing it open from the outside so that Will had to step around him to get through. He did so, but hesitantly, like a fairytale character suddenly realizing the implications of crossing the boundary into the Faerie Queen's castle. He clearly held reservations regarding what crossing over Hannibal’s threshold would mean for the distance he had so carefully maintained between them. No longer acquaintances; this would cement them as _friends_.

Will seemed the type to bestow that title sparingly. 

His toes were numbing in his shoes by the time Hannibal stepped inside behind Will, shutting the door and the cold out. He removed his coat and draped it over his arm before turning to Will, who stood watching him, coat and hat still on, nose and cheeks and fingertips still red, bordering on blue. “Your coat?” Hannibal prompted, and found himself unaccountably pleased at the way that Will turned, his back to Hannibal now, so that Hannibal might help him with the doffing.

All of the outerwear gathered, Hannibal pulled open the coat closet door and stored them away, brushing a few errant snowflakes from the shoulders of Will’s jacket before shutting the door. 

When he turned, Will had not moved from his spot. Instead, he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, making no motion that he would go further into the house. “So,” he said, averting his face, “I kissed Alana Bloom.”

Hannibal sucked in a breath. His brows twitched upward at this revelation. “Well,” he said, and brushed past his guest and into the adjacent hall**. **

When he had pictured Will sharing confidences, these, perhaps, were not the sort he had envisioned. 

He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say for the space of a moment, still stuck on Will’s announcement and the discomfort that filled him following it. It took only a moment, but he found something to bridge the silence. “Have you eaten?” 

“I can’t even think about food,” Will answered, patently distraught, but trailing after him toward the kitchen the way Hannibal imagined Will’s dogs would follow _him_ about the house. 

_It has its charm_, Hannibal thought. _But also not the right template. _He didn’t need a dog. 

“You will feel better with something warming inside you,” Hannibal declared. 

“Another prescription?” Will huffed from behind him, though Hannibal could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Worse. Doctor’s orders,” he said, and allowed a little laugh in response to Will’s subsequent groan. 

As they walked through the dining room with its living wall herb garden, Will looked this way and that. Once inside the kitchen, he murmured, “You have a lovely home.”

From anyone else, those words might be offered a little self-consciously. Hannibal’s environs suited his aesthetics. He had spent time, effort, and a great deal of money to make them as personally palatable as possible. That his guests often found his home intimidating, he was aware. 

But Will’s observation came loaded with no such subtext. A simple statement of fact.

“Thank you,” Hannibal answered, and motioned for Will to take a seat in the leather chair he kept in the corner. It might be a bit stiff yet, uncomfortable. He rarely allowed guests into the kitchen: they waited in the dining room, with Leda and the Swan and his wall of herbs to entertain them until the meal declared itself ready to be served. Alana might be the rare exception, but she had been participating in the preparations rather than observing for quite a long time now. “How long did you wait outside?”

“An hour?” Will answered, a pained grin on his face, his hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

And yet his body felt so warm. 

“Some whiskey, first,” Hannibal declared, “while I prepare our dinner.”

“Really, you don’t have to—” 

But Hannibal tutted, and Will fell silent. He received the glass of whiskey with a low thanks, eyes on the liquid swirling inside of it. 

Hannibal turned his attention to his fridge, taking stock of the ingredients inside. He had planned on a roulade for tonight’s dinner, but this would not do; he would serve something that could be prepared more quickly. Something perhaps a bit more accessible—perhaps a Poulet Vallée d’Auge...

And then he saw the chanterelles. 

How could he be expected to pick anything else?

Once his ingredients were all on the counter, he moved into the most efficient prep-work he could manage while with such valuable company, breaking the monotony of his tasks with the question that had possessed him since Will’s confession in the foyer. “You drove all the way out to Baltimore and sat at my door for an hour to tell me that you kissed Alana Bloom?”

“Yeah,” Will said, on yet another self-deprecating laugh, before taking a healthy inaugural sip of the whiskey whose swirling had so hypnotised him. Hannibal waited.

Will had seemed so adept at prolonging silences when Alana Bloom had interviewed him, in Hannibal’s office, all those months ago. In Hannibal’s company, however, Will did not often display a penchant for a mulish silence. He seemed to trust Hannibal enough to allow himself to speak. To let his lips and tongue form his thoughts as he thought them. Utterly charming. 

“It was a good kiss,” he said, at last. “She’s, uh—” he swallowed, then, and the clicking of his throat could be heard over the sound of Hannibal’s knife, coming down in rhythmic strokes across the cutting board as he chopped his vegetables. “—very kissable.”

Hannibal’s jaw clenched as he readjusted his grip on the knife. “But things have not turned out the way you would want them to,” he surmised.

“No,” Will drew out the vowel, voice pitched higher than usual. “She came over,” he added at last, sounding defeated. “Came in the house for the first time. The way she looked around—she framed it like a friendly visit, but that’s not what it felt like.”

“Not a friendly visit. An amorous overture?” On the stove, the chicken broth had begun to simmer. He turned partially toward the range to adjust the heat, but kept his eyes there for the bare minimum amount of time he could before fixing them back on Will and the bitterness in his expression.

“A _welfare visit_.” His voice dripped acidic disappointment, indignance, injury. 

An interesting choice of words as Alana Bloom had no hand in his care. But to call it something so official as a welfare visit…

“I saw the way she looked at me, at my house. Like I’m _sick_, like I’m teetering on the edge, like I need help.” He took in a shuddering breath, raked a hand through his curls. “And I kissed her.”

“Teetering,” Hannibal repeated. He had been sauteeing the garlic and the arborio rice, the precisely measured white wine steaming up from the pan and into his face. “The kiss was a clutch for balance.”

“No. I’m _not_ teetering,” Will argued, head coming up sharply. “Whatever she thinks, my feet are firmly planted on the ground. I kissed her because—because I’ve wanted to.” 

“But that’s how she saw it,” Hannibal countered, ladling some of the warm broth into the pan. “As a clutch for balance.”

“That’s how she saw it,” Will conceded. He stood, paced back and forth by the island, staying on his side. No move to peep at Hannibal’s work, get an eyeful of what sat on the stove. The one concession to interest in Hannibal’s current occupation was the deep inhalation that followed. “Smells good.”

Hannibal answered that compliment with a perfunctory smile, focused instead on the preparations he wanted to finish so that he might feed his friend. He would not sacrifice quality for speed, of course, but he would push all limits to see his goal completed as efficiently as may be.

“She said I was a bad idea. That if she were her own patient, she would tell herself not to do it.” Will paused in his pacing to sip his whiskey, then resumed his trek across the kitchen. He still remained on his side of the island; respectfully only moving as far into the room as Hannibal had originally invited him. “Of course, she said that after she’d already done it.”

Hannibal stopped moving and turned around, brows rocketing into his hairline. _A highly inappropriate admission._

Will saw this look and scrambled to explain. “The kissing,” he clarified. “I meant, she kissed me back.”

Some of the tension released from Hannibal’s shoulders as he turned back to the stove, seeing the stock had cooked out and adding another ladle’s worth to the pan. “We all house contradictions, Will,” Hannibal murmured, feeling the supreme ridiculousness of the situation that he should be dispensing love advice. And to Will Graham, no less.

“I’m not upset that she changed her mind,” Will sighed, lowering himself once more into the chair. “I mean, I am disappointed, of course. But that’s not—” 

_Not why he drove to Baltimore to sit for an hour outside my door. _

The phrase hung uncompleted between them for the minutes that followed, Will apparently lost to his internal reflections, and Hannibal busy at the stove. The air felt calm between them, though, comfortable. _Friendly_. 

At length, Hannibal turned off the burner under his pan and moved it to the cool side of the grill. Fleetingly, he recalled Franklyn Froideveaux, the way the man’s silence screamed, the way he never seemed to stop moving. 

Their discussion of roles. 

In retrospect, psychiatrist and patient, while convenient and even easy, didn’t seem like the right template either. 

“I guess,” Will said after a while. “I had an idea of her in my mind. I saw her qualities, you know. Kindness, gentleness. Beauty.” A bitter huff of laughter followed that admission. “She’s soft and still strong. I imagined what we could be like, together. What being with her would bring out in me.” 

He swallowed then, so audibly that Hannibal heard it across the room, over the simmering of stock in the pan. 

“The idea of Alana and the reality of her are different,” Hannibal agreed. _‘I imagined what we could be like, together’_. Something in his chest tightened again, the way it had when Will blurted that he had kissed her. 

“It wasn’t fair of me,” Will concluded, and fell silent once more.

Hannibal glanced up at Will’s silent countenance, and felt the desire to smile flutter at the corners of his lips. Will looked the way Hannibal often saw him in the office, of late—legs wide, the elegant column of his throat arching as his head tilted back to rest on the top of the chair, whiskey glass held in two hands suspended between his knees. An open positioning, vulnerable. Trusting. 

“Will,” he said, and those startlingly blue eyes blinked open as his head righted to acknowledge Hannibal’s call. “If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in the dining room,” he motioned toward the appropriate door with one hand, “I’ll bring the food out shortly.”

“I can, uh, set the table,” Will offered, “if you like.” He had seen the wooden tray with the placemats and utensils, the water and wine glasses and the linen napkins, sitting on the counter between them. 

It had taken months and months of dinners with Alana before he had allowed her to do as much. Years before he allowed her to assist with the preparations of the food they would consume. A guest remained a guest. He did not allow that level of intimacy lightly. 

And yet he could not help the appreciative tilt of his head that had Will approaching the counter and taking the tray, the small smile curling his lips upward as he heard the dinnerware touching down on the table in the other room.

It took mere seconds to serve the dishes and garnish them, to tuck a bottle of chilled white—a nice Bâtard-Montrachet—into the crook of his arm and to carry their dinner out of the kitchen. 

Will had set two places across from each other at the very end of the table, Hannibal’s usual seat at the head empty, their phantom host. He had poured them each a glass of water, and the utensils were all positioned correctly. 

“Dinner is served,” Hannibal announced, setting one of the plates down in front of Will and then the other at his. “Risotto ai funghi,” he declared, “with leeks, Parmigiano-Reggiano, and black truffle shavings.” He lowered his lashes under the pretense of hoisting the bottle of wine to open it, though his sights remained trained on Will, absorbing his reaction to the meal: a startled laugh and a briefly lingering smile.

He turned his face up to Hannibal, the corners of his eyes still crinkled but smoothing out into a look of blatant assessment. “Mushrooms?”

Hannibal affected a look of surprise and then alarm. “I do apologize—that was thoughtless of me.”

“Not at all,” Will said, looking down to Hannibal’s hands, having noted they went still. “I love mushrooms.” Something in Will’s tone revealed his desire to say more, as though the words were crowding behind his lips, desperate to be spoken.

Hannibal uncorked the wine and poured it. Normally, and especially for such a fine vintage, he would announce the selection, present the label, follow the steps of a good wine service. Instead, he opted for silence, returning to his seat to wait. 

Still slightly slumped against the back of his chair, Will picked up his fork in his hand, staring at the tines. “I had to go into the office at Quantico to pick up my belongings. After the raid,” he said, righting himself and taking the fork into a proper hold. “I got there right around lunch; they had ordered pizza. Zeller offered me a slice. All they had left was a few pieces of the vegetarian. He got a scolding, and I had to leave hungry.”

“They feared upsetting you,” he surmised. “Because Eldon Stammets served you his mushrooms.”

Will nodded, eyes on his fork, poised above his plate, but his sight somewhere in the middle distance. The lines around them crinkled then—a strong movement, the smile irrepressible though fleeting—and he spoke again. “Actually, _this—_” he gestured at his plate, “—mushroom and leek risotto was the first real meal that Eldon made for me.” And then he scooped a forkful of risotto into his mouth. 

Hannibal felt his senses sharpen, attuned as they were on him. His nerves sparkled with excitement. Had Will ever referred to him as ‘Eldon’—and _just_ Eldon—before, in their previous discussions? 

Will’s eyes drooped closed, he chewed carefully, the shadow of a smile on his features. An affectionate thing, or a wistful one? His throat bobbed with his swallow. “God, he was an awful cook,” he said, already loading more food onto his fork. “But _this_—this is _delicious_.” 

Of all of the thousands upon thousands of meals that Hannibal had shared with others over the course of his life—even the many where he had served his guests their fellows—he had never savored a sense of victory as complete and gratifying as he did in this moment. He waited until Will had completed his second bite to close his eyes and commit this scene and its various sensations to memory. 

“Thank you,” he said, at length, and then joined him in the eating. The opportunity presented here filled him with anticipation. Had he not awaited the moment that Will would at last begin to share his confidences, open up a bit about his time with Eldon Stammets, since he had heard his interview with Alana? A tiny, competing part of his consciousness had a conflicting desire, to return to the topic of that shared acquaintance, and the events that had brought Will to his door, but he pushed it aside.

He entertained a number of follow-up questions to keep the subject going, but in the end settled on a comment phrased as one. “Eldon Stammets was not in the habit of cooking for company?”

Will huffed, that fleeting smile captured in his features once again before picking up his wine. “No, no. Maybe about as often as I do.”

One of Will’s disclosures early on had been that he cooked every meal that his dogs consumed. “You don’t count your dogs as company, then,” he said. 

And then the strangest thing happened. 

Will misunderstood him. 

“He didn’t _cook_ for the dogs, he picked up a bag of Eukanuba.”

For the merest fraction of a second, Will’s eyes widened. He looked down, fixing them on his plate, his cheeks rushing full of color. Hannibal had seen Will obfuscate, seen him lie before; those times, he managed his misleading statements and untruths with a respectable poker face. This time, however, he could not hide the feeling in his features, could not school his expression. 

“I hadn’t been aware that he looked after them for you,” Hannibal said, curiosity buzzing in his bloodstream, electrifying his fingertips. Will Graham seemed to cultivate this sense of personal investment in Hannibal’s curiosity that he had not experienced before with others. Usually, when he observed someone confronting multiple courses of action, he watched, interested but unaffected. 

Never had he felt so alight. 

“He—” Will swallowed. He looked up at Hannibal’s face, coming so close to eye contact that Hannibal found himself holding his breath. “Who else could it have been?” he asked, finding a lie, finding his footing. “They were well-fed and cared for when I got back, and it’s not like I had the time to line up a sitter to come in and check on them. And he had my keys.”

“And then, of course, there was the dog food,” Hannibal said, nodding in agreement and not believing a word of it.

“Right,” Will said. “In the cabinet when I got back.” He picked up his fork with alacrity and brought another bite to his mouth. He coughed once.

Hannibal cocked a brow, letting the humor bleed into the lines around his mouth. “More wine?”

“Please,” Will mumbled around his mouthful, a hand coming up to cover the view of his mouth as it opened with the words. 

Another pour emptied the bottle past the half-way point. After a sip and a swallow audible across the table, Will seemed to recover, but Hannibal did not want to hand over the reins to him so quickly. “He fed you his mushrooms,” Hannibal continued, “but did not cook them well? A pity.”

This started a laugh from Will, who settled against the back of his chair as the smile faded from his face. “Actually,” Will drew out the final vowel, fingers splaying wide on the edge of the table, tendons taut, as he considered. 

_How much will you reveal? _

“When he was cooking for me, the mushrooms themselves were always done perfectly. It was the rest that disappointed. The, uh—the care was for the mushrooms.”

_‘When he was cooking for me’. _Which meant that Stammets had stopped cooking for him at some point. “You wielded the weapon of your empathy and insight,” he said, setting his fork down and leaning a little forward toward Will, “and convinced him to let you cook in his stead.”

Surprise made Will’s lips go slack, his eyebrows pull his eyes wide open. He let out a huff of disbelieving laughter, blinked a few times at his lap before looking up at Hannibal’s face again, head tiling a little as he examined him. His pupils dilated and constricted as he focused, the blue irises around them taking on an almost greenish cast under the angle of the light that reflected from them. “What a conclusion to come to,” he said, but did not attempt to convince Hannibal that he had arrived at the wrong one. His tone sounded light, but Hannibal could perceive a sharpness under the words. 

Something finely honed, like the edge of a scalpel. Something familiar. 

“I’ll have to watch my words more carefully around you,” Will said, teased, his manner so loose and unencumbered that Hannibal felt as though he were seeing him for the first time.

_And what a sight_.

Something inside of Hannibal changed at that moment. What had been murky, nebulous, and abstract, like a caterpillar in its chrysalis, solidified into something concrete. No longer a caterpillar or a pupa, but a fully formed butterfly. 

To borrow Will’s own words: Hannibal had approached the question of Will Graham with the roughest of sketch lines, a general shape, an impression that he wanted to capture. But now the details were filling in. Now—_now_—he had a _design_.

“Must you?” Hannibal answered, giving him a little smile, lifting his glass of wine and taking a sniff of the delicate, grassy bouquet. “I hope I have not given the impression that your confidences would be treated as anything but confidential.”

“No,” Will agreed, leaning back in his chair, his wrists still on the table, fingers now relaxed, though his gaze remained incisive, assessing.

“And further, that I have not made you uncomfortable, or given you cause to regret sharing of yourself with me.” He set his glass down, waiting for Will’s answer.

“No,” Will agreed again, eyes dropping, one brow popping upward for a moment as though the answer came as a surprise even to himself. 

Perhaps a little push. “Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation.”

Will hummed for a moment, thinking. “Is that Wilde?”

Hannibal picked up his fork, his smile a brief, true thing. “You have expressed a resistance to the idea of connecting with others. But you have given me the gift of coming to me when you needed support. Man is changeable.”

“We strive to change our habits, and foster deeper human connection,” Will recalled, quoting Hannibal from their conversation the night that they had discussed the Wells case. When they had discussed building a friendship between them.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, humor making his lips tingle. “We are coming to know one another better. No longer strangers, interchangeable acquaintances.” He paused. It would not quite reflect the template he had chosen, but it would do for now. “Friends.”

For a moment, Will said nothing. His eyes flitted over Hannibal’s features, as though searching for something, or as though trying to read him. Whatever he sought, he must have found—whatever he read, he must have liked—because he picked up his wine, then, and raised his glass a little. “To friendship, then,” he said. 

Hannibal joined him in the toast, satisfaction warming his blood far more than the beverage.

“Thank you for dinner,” Will said, scooping up his fork again. “This really is delicious.”

-+-

Domestic noises echoed from the kitchen and down the hall to the study. Will leaned against the mantle, appreciating the warmth of the fire against his legs. He’d recovered from the outdoor chill by now, of course, but somehow he still felt iced over on the inside. The fire soothed him, melted away the layer of frost inside. 

_‘I do apologize—that was thoughtless of me_.’ 

Dr. Lecter, quite the actor. Of course he had not forgotten. He had served the mushrooms on purpose. Had known that it would turn the subject of conversation to Eldon Stammets. Had been curious to see what Will might reveal. 

The good doctor suspected something. 

Will reminded himself that Dr. Lecter read TattleCrime. He had admitted to reading the article with Eldon’s letter. He must have seen Lounds’ exposé. He might not have reached the same conclusions that she had—maybe he had formed his own opinions, and who knew what those could be? Dr. Lecter, though he had never looked at the man very closely, didn’t show his thoughts and emotions on his face the same way that others did.

_Something opaque about him._ He’d thought so once before—_not easily touched._ Maybe nothing so simple as that. He had the distinct impression that Dr. Lecter would never be a slave to his emotions. His feelings were his subjects; under his supreme control, and he would always rule over them with the same ease and grace that he managed everything else.

Well, perhaps not _everything_. His little dinner-time deception had been rather transparent. _Transparent_, he thought, _but not ineffective, despite that_. Will gave him the first morsel on purpose: the admission that Eldon had cooked a similar meal—that _awful _risotto—and the intimation that his skills at hosting had been lacking. But then his tongue slipped. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter that Dr. Lecter knew that Eldon had fed the dogs. A minor detail. One that wouldn’t matter. One that wouldn’t come up in the trial. 

As for his cooking for Eldon… Did it matter that Dr. Lecter knew? Not that he _knew_, in fact. Did it matter that he suspected? Even if it _did_, Will found himself struggling to find the justification to mind, really. The doctor’s curiosity made him wary, of course, but this wariness was borne from a sense of self-preservation. A desire to defend himself from judgement, immediately, and protect himself from the possibility of further inquiries into his involvement with Eldon, more distantly. 

No matter how wary it made him, Will knew that Dr. Lecter’s overtures of friendship had been authentic. Earnest. And he had not felt cause to fear the doctor’s judgement, not since the first time they met. Will knew, he _knew_, that he could trust in Dr. Lecter’s discretion. That it didn’t come with strings attached. 

This comforted him. 

It also made him feel profoundly off-balance. 

“Will?”

His name, spoken so close to his ear, made him jump about a foot into the air, made his heart jackhammer in his chest. How had he not heard the man approach? 

_No, no, of course you didn’t hear him._ Will reminded himself of the man’s preternaturally silent tread, that it had caught him unawares more than once before. _He’s basically a ninja._

Hannibal reached out and squeezed Will’s shoulder—a casual gesture that brought him a step closer. “You must have been lost rather deeply in your thoughts.”

Will reached for his drink where he had set it down on a wooden coaster on top of the mantle. Dr. Lecter’s hand lingered on his shoulder, a soft, grounding pressure. Since the first time he had touched Will like this—since Will had shrugged him off—his touches had always been fleeting, efficient things. 

Of course, _now_ they were _friends_. 

He took a bracing sip, then nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I’ve been—well,” he sighed. “I’ve been a little out of it. Part of the problem, I guess.”

“The problem,” Dr. Lecter repeated, fingers falling away from Will as he took a casual stance in front of him, not mirroring his posture but maintaining the close physical proximity despite stepping to the side. Ostensibly warming himself in front of the hearth, too. For a moment, as he passed by, his body heat rivaled the warmth of the fire. 

Will blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to center himself. _You’re disorienting_, he told himself, then opened his eyes_. _“Why Alana sees me as _unwell_,” he clarified, returning to a safer topic. The one that had brought him here.

“Ah.”

Will wandered away from the doctor, toward one of the red tufted chairs that sat before the fireplace. He settled himself on its cushion, leaned back against the plush material. _Microvelvet?_ He propped his glass of whiskey on his knee, eyes trailing to the hems of Dr. Lecter’s suit pants and the sliver of a navy blue sock visible beneath them. 

“I know,” Will sighed. “I know how it looks. Passing out at Elliot Budish’s barn…”

“Did you?” Dr. Lecter asked, coming to sit across from him, crossing one leg over his knee. A curious glimmer in his eyes.

_Always curious. Maybe the one feeling he can’t completely hide._

Will rubbed his hand to his brow. His stomach felt heated with embarrassment, with the warmth of the fire and the fullness of their dinner, the half-bottle of wine and the several fingers of whiskey they’d shared. 

Warmth, and comfort. And oddly, ease. 

He remembered feeling this way before, after they had set the business of the totem in Grafton aside and allowed themselves to socialize: that lulling calm that had tempted him to unburden himself. Maybe just this once, he could. A little secret. Nothing that mattered, in the grand scheme of things. Nothing that Dr. Lecter, with his impressive insight and intellect, would not have been able to logic out already. 

“I did,” he said. “It was too many in a row. Too many minds in my head.” He took a sip, returned his eyes to the sock, the leather tongue of the shoe that covered it. Easier to let his mouth go when he didn’t need to risk seeing the man’s reaction. “Elliot Budish died after he strung himself up like one of his angels. His blood was still dripping when we got there. The droplets caught the light—sparkling red like falling stars, meteors blazing through the atmosphere.” He reached up to scratch at his cheek, only realized when he touched his face that his lips twisted upward in that painful mockery of a smile. “Then Elliot Budish lowered himself to the ground and offered me the glory of my _Becoming_.”

“Your becoming.”

“Not the first killer to make me that kind of offer, but the first to do it once he’d already died.” He tilted his head to his ear and moved his gaze up to Dr. Lecter’s face, helpless to stop himself, to fight that magnetic pull.

Dr. Lecter’s lips twitched at the quip, though they did not then blossom into a smile. “Lenny Marron,” he surmised.

“_He_ made me _all kinds_ of promises.” Will dropped his eyes briefly to Dr. Lecter’s hands, before going back up to the curve of his jaw. “And extorted a few in turn. Budish had the courtesy at least to make an offer, and not force promises under duress.”

“Did you answer his offer?”

“I—” for a moment, Will wanted to answer that he had, but he realized that this was a lie. “I asked what he wanted me to become, but I knew it didn’t matter. And then I passed out.”

“And Alana was there to catch you.” The jaw moved smoothly with his speech, free of tension. The little lines in the corners of his eyes were free of tension too, but there was something else there. 

_He’s entertained by the idea._

Not that Will didn’t find the image of himself fainting into her arms, like some damsel in distress, at least a little comical. Still. “No—no. She drove me home when I refused the ambulance.” He shoved a hand through his hair, the despondency from earlier in the evening returning like the swell of the tide. “So I can see why she would think… but I’m _fine_.”

“Now that you’re no longer inundated in the minds of other killers?”

“I’m like a self-cleaning oven,” Will huffed, cheeks pulling up in the closest he could manage for a smile—the one that felt more like a grimace—again. His fingers itched to scratch at the back of his neck, but he kept them still. _A tell, a tell,_ he reminded himself. _Keep still. _“It needs time, but it turns the residue the killers leave behind into ash. Just needs sweeping out.”

“A physical manifestation of a psychic phenomenon.”

“Mm.”

“A common ailment?”

“Common enough to be recognizable,” Will said. His eyes dropped once more to Dr. Lecter’s fingers, loosely clasped together on his lap. “But not immediately.”

“Lenny Marron, Eldon Stammets…” Dr. Lecter ticked off names, identifying instances where Will would likely have gone through this illness before. “Abel Gideon?”

“Not him on his own,” Will said. “All of them combined. Gideon, Silvestri, and then Elliot Budish.”

A pause. “But not the Chesapeake Ripper?” When Will didn’t answer immediately, Dr. Lecter tilted his head to the side. “Or did he fail to make an impression?”

This suggestion felt so absurd that Will couldn’t help the visceral “No!” that burst from his lips. “He’s… It was such a small thing, that package, but so much inside of it to unpack. He’s not like Gideon, or Silvestri, or Budish. Or… or the one who put up that totem pole.”

“Lawrence Wells,” Hannibal supplied, voice unobtrusive, not intending to interrupt. 

“Or Wells. The Chesapeake Ripper is… complex. He’s- I’m still, um, getting to know him.”

He realized again that they had strayed from the topic of Will’s failed overtures to Alana Bloom. For all that he’d driven out here to talk about it, they never seemed to linger on the subject long enough for him to put words to his feelings. But though he would have liked to fulfill his purpose in coming here, he didn’t mind the tangents that they were traveling down together. 

At least—the ones that didn’t have to do with Eldon Stammets directly. He might trust the doctor to keep his secrets, but that didn’t mean he felt comfortable disclosing them. Disclosing _those_.

“Alana’s worried the Ripper has it out for me, actually,” Will said, letting the humor bubbling inside of him come out to color his voice. He brought his glass to his lips, but paused before taking a sip. “Or that he will, if I get too close to him. She doesn’t think I’m taking the threat seriously enough.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper has operated freely, presumably without concern for capture for years. It stands to reason that he might take an interest in someone who may be capable of catching him.” There was something flip in the way he said this, as though he wasn’t talking about Will at all, but about some stranger. 

A good sign, if he didn’t buy that Will was in danger, either. _I’ll drink to that. _He took his sip.

“Has there been any further word from that quarter?” Dr. Lecter asked. 

“You mean have the team found anything to point to a possible suspect?” Will laughed outright at this. “No. Of course not. The Ripper never leaves a trace.”

Hannibal hummed.

_Hannibal_. _That’s a first._ He’d never thought of him by his first name before. But now that they were conversing with such ease… now that they were _friends_, the name appeared from the void. If he didn’t have impeccable memory he might be surprised that he’d even remember it; after their initial introduction until just this moment, he’d never really given the name a second thought.

He sipped his whiskey again the warming trail down his throat reminded him that it might just be the alcohol. 

“Doctor Lecter, I’ve been meaning to ask,” he said, sitting straight in his chair, the question hitting him like a bolt of lightning. “When I came to see you last week—did I look alright to you when I left?”

Something sharpened in Dr. Lecter’s gaze, and Will heard the distant echo of Lenny Marron’s voice. _You saw the sharp thing inside me. And you recognized the one inside you._

“You were, perhaps, a little more fluid than usual, but did not appear inebriated.”

_A normal person would ask why. But he won’t ask. He’ll wait for me to tell him_. He was fostering friendship. He would want him to take an active part in this exchange. Will could give him that easily, right now. He’d been doing it all night. “I just—the end of the evening is a bit of a blank.”

“You lost time.” Such a finality to his tone. As though he had reached a dire conclusion. But even now, he didn’t look at Will with the professional concern that one might expect from a psychiatrist and physician. 

The look that Alana gave him so often. 

Will wavered for a moment before he decided that, even though he knew he need fear nothing from Dr. Lecter, he wasn’t ready to broach this subject yet. He’d made himself too vulnerable tonight. “It was late, I zoned out on the drive home,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the air before him. “I was just wondering if I’d forgotten saying anything that maybe I ought to remember.” 

Despite the levity in the delivery, Dr. Lecter merely inclined his head. _Unconvinced_. His eyes drifted down to Will’s glass, now only a trickle of whiskey remaining, and at this break in almost eye-contact, Will realized just how much time the doctor spent looking him in the face as they spoke. 

Maybe that was why he seemed to see through Will so much more easily than most. He paid attention. He watched Will’s reactions and drew his own conclusions, interested in whether they matched Will's words, but not bothered if they did not.

“Would you care for another?”

“After the conversation we’ve been having?” Will laughed. 

“You have a formidable tolerance for alcohol,” Dr. Lecter observed, the words free from innuendo. 

From anyone else it might feel like he’d just been called an alcoholic. 

“Something we share in common,” Will said, coming to his feet. 

Hannibal stood, too—_there, ‘Hannibal’ again_—and moved over to the sideboard. How many places did the man have to store spirits? He extended a hand to take Will’s cup and placed it beside his own—empty, now—on a small, silver tray, before pulling two fresh glasses and an unlabeled bottle from inside the cabinet. 

“A local bourbon,” Dr. Lecter announced, removing the stopper from the mouth of the cut crystal container and taking a delicate sniff of the aromas rising from within. “Republic Restoratives. I am acquainted with the owners—a charming lesbian couple. Their distillery is quite the operation.”

Will stood behind the doctor as he waited to be passed a glass—only one finger, this time. Something sparked in the corner of his eye and he turned his head briefly to the fireplace, to find nothing amiss. 

When he turned back, Dr. Lecter’s weight had settled in his toes, his body inclined forward toward Will, his eyes shuttered, though not closed entirely. Something about the tension in his face, and then the rushing sound of an inhalation, and—

“Did you just _smell_ me?” Will asked, taken entirely aback. 

“Difficult to avoid,” Dr. Lecter said, his eyes shining, reflecting the light in the fireplace in his dark, somewhat dilated pupils.

A cavernous, bottomless darkness, illuminated by the fires of hell. 

Will blinked. 

“You seem to have absorbed something of the smell of our dinner,” the doctor was saying, in his accented, lilting voice. 

“It’s, uh—my hair,” Will said, feeling suddenly dizzy, as though he’d lost his footing. “Curls grab on to smells.” He touched a hand to his neck, then brought it restlessly back down to his side. 

“Do you like the bourbon?” 

Will brought the glass to his lips in haste, took a sip of the dry, peaty booze. “It’s smooth,” he commented, enjoying the distraction of its heat trailing to his stomach. 

Another noncommittal hum from the doctor before he led the way back toward their seats. 

When he settled back into his seat, Will fell the oddest sensation, like a reverse vertigo; the blood dropped to his feet, his toes tingling in his shoes, as though just coming back to life after thawing from being out in the cold. He blinked hard, swiped a hand against the sweat on his forehead. 

“Before I forget,” Hannibal murmured over the lip of his glass. “When you visited my office last week, I believe we discussed a wager.”

“Discussed one, yes,” Will said, rifling through his memory for the proposed terms. “Agreed on one, not so much.”

Dr. Lecter tipped his head. “I had proposed to find out the degree to which your interpretation of the evidence aligned with the realities of the Wells case; I supposed that we might find you correct on all counts.”

“All or nothing is a hard wager to win,” Will observed, trying to still the churning in his stomach. He’d felt this before, in Dr. Lecter’s presence. Right before he’d come home to find Matthew Brown’s parcel on his porch. He’d been thinking of Eldon, had felt as though he’d fallen down the rabbit hole once more. _Why now_?

“You will be glad not to have taken the bet,” Dr. Lecter said, lips curled upward, smug. “For I would have won.”

This caught his attention. “You winning means that I was correct… on all counts…?”

“Yes.”

Will couldn’t help the way the heat rushed to his cheeks. Not so much for having been right; but that Dr. Lecter had been so confident that he would be. “_All_ counts?”

“All.” A pause. “One by a technicality. But nonetheless.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from his lips. “Do tell.”

“Ah, but that would be shop talk, and I cannot abide to discuss work at home.” Will didn’t need the power of his superior insight to see through this falsehood. 

“A little late to make the trek to your office, Doctor.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “We shall have to settle on another time to discuss the matter in detail.”

They exchanged smiles laden with amusement. At the ridiculousness of the ruse, and the willingness on both their parts to play along. As one, they raised their glasses to their lips, and it felt, much more than it had at dinnertime, like a toast. 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Republic Restoratives—a real life distillery in DC, really good bourbon, and it is a lesbian-owned business! I’m unclear as to whether the real owners are a couple or not, so they remain unnamed here in case I got it wrong—we’ll pretend it’s owned by a fictional couple. It’s really very good bourbon, from someone that is only just now learning to think about maybe eventually liking bourbon. 
> 
> I figured I ought to share where we are on the timeline of this fic, for those of you who are curious. I'm hesitant to put a projected total chapter count to this story, as, though we're about four or five chapters away from what is the midway point of my outline, that does not equate to being that far away from the midway point of the story. This is gonna be one lengthy sunnuva. I have the whole thing plotted out with only a few question marks, a beta that keeps me on task, and a strong interest in both seeing this through to the end, making it as interesting as possible on the way there, and keeping up the updates as regularly as I have done thus far. So. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one! I'm pretty happy with it. Let me know what you thought!
> 
> See you all again two Thursdays from now (3/19)!


	15. Snubs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 34-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Fifteen

Snubs.

-+-

> [[**Only the Ripper Will Do: Will Graham Snubs Justice, Chooses to Let Killers Run Free**]]
> 
> Readers who have been wondering at the recent lack of coverage regarding the FBI’s resident psychopath, Will Graham: your wait is over. 
> 
> For those of you new to our reporting, a brief summary: Will Graham, “kidnapping victim” to Eldon Stammets, the Mushroom Man, now awaiting trial for the deaths of 9 victims buried in his mushroom garden, has been consulting for the FBI on recent serial-killer related cases, beginning with Abel Gideon’s false confession to the crimes of the Chesapeake Ripper, and ending with the Angel Maker murders. TattleCrime recently published an exposé on the details of his sordid past—his ability to think like killers, his obsession with them, and the injury that resulted in his leaving the police force in New Orleans [LINK].
> 
> Though Graham had been seen with startling regularity at crime scenes preceding the publication of the TattleCrime exclusive, there have been several high-profile cases handled by the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit since then, and his absence has been noted at all of them. One might think that our investigative reporting had brought clarity to the FBI’s HR department, and that his absense arose from the Bureau terminating their connection, but this is not the case.
> 
> In fact, according to a source close to the subject, even after the failed capture of Elliot Budish, Angel-Maker, the BAU has continued to actively seek Will Graham for consultation, only to be refused by the man in question. 
> 
> It seems that for _this_ psychopath, only the Chesapeake Ripper will do. 
> 
> Per our source: “He’s washed his hands of any cases that are not related to the Ripper. No matter how gruesome or violent. He said, ‘if it’s not the Ripper, I’m not doing it.’” Will Grahams recent noncooperation with law enforcement concerns our source, among others. “If he’s thinking like them, then he’s thinking like the Ripper. Do we really need another Ripper running around?”
> 
> Even under the regular care of his team of psychiatric handlers, Will Graham’s obsession with killers has now narrowed its focus to the most dangerous and gruesome of them all. Rather than assist the BAU in bringing down those killers who, while not quite as prolific or as deviant, are currently active and more easily stopped, Will Graham has turned his nose up at the job of Justice. And the BAU has let him, giving him compensation and benefits, on top of what he wants most of all: front row tickets to the crime scenes of a killer that _this_ reporter believes he has no intention of catching. 

-+- 

Will woke once more in his bed, panting, feeling feverish and sweaty, even as his breath condensed into little clouds of steam the moment it hit the frigid morning air. He had already not been sleeping well, and after coming home from Dr. Lecter’s house on Thursday, the restless nights had gotten progressively worse. He’d sat outside in the cold too long, waiting for the doctor to get home. At the time, he didn’t notice how long he’d been out there, too focused on his heartache; the numbness settling into his extremities had even felt _good_ at the time. Like the world and his body were reforming themselves to match his emotional state.

But now…

Now he was just sick. 

Sick and mildly hungover, and all this on top of his _other _ailment: the physical manifestation of a psychic phenomenon, as the doctor had put it.

Will laid in bed the whole of Friday. Even the thought of braving the elements for the short walk to the shed… worse, the idea of sitting out there, in that uninsulated workspace, the heater trying its hardest to minimal effect, spending hours again in that cold…

Saturday, at last, he crawled out of bed, cleared his sinuses with a steaming shower, and set about making food that didn’t come from a can or a freezer tray. Not that he found much to work with in his fridge; he cooked rice in a pot on the stove, and set about baking a sad-looking eggplant stuffed with its own flesh, tomatoes, and cheese. As he scooped a serving from the pot onto his plate, he recalled the perfect tenderness of the arborio rice and mushrooms in Dr. Lecter’s risotto, and found his mouth watering.

His meal did not stand up to comparison, but it cost him nothing, and would fill his stomach.

What foolishness possessed him to open Beverly’s email—_subject line: Why does Lounds hate you so much? —_before he finished eating, he did not know. But once he read through the short article, his appetite disappeared completely and the dull thudding in his head returned with a vengeance. 

“She weaves her lies tightly, and darns the holes in the tapestry of her narrative with speculation,” he repeated his words to Alana aloud. That conversation happened when things between them were beginning to crumble, but the ones before then had been pleasant, comfortable talks. Would they ever be able to talk that way again? Lightly, without tension between them? But he couldn’t focus on her now, not with Freddie Lounds, the perpetual thorn in his side, pricking at his skin.

On one level, he could appreciate the comedy of Lounds’ blatant self-contradictions: in one breath, calling the FBI incompetent for not firing him; on the next, denouncing Will for not wanting to work any and all cases handled by Jack and his team. 

He could also acknowledge the uselessness of letting her rile him up like this. Her unsubstantiated opinions didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. So he got some odd looks from strangers. Did that really matter? 

No. 

Then again, he was also painfully aware that her audience consisted of more than just random strangers. It could count among its members psychopaths, murderers, and serial killers, too. Matthew, to name one. And the Chesapeake Ripper, if only incidentally so far as he was concerned. Who else out there read her drivel and reached her same conclusions? Who else bought into the narrative that Will was some rabid dog on the FBI’s leash, trained to sniff out others like him? Whether to catch them, or to join them, if only the leash would snap.

His mood ruined, not that it had been any good to begin with, Will stuck the remains of his lunch into the refrigerator uncovered, and then walked over to his bed. The comforters were still slightly warm from when he had left them, toasty enough to be welcoming for his feet, to save him the shock of sliding between cold sheets.

For an hour or so, he drifted.

Somewhere along the line, he fell asleep. He only realized this when his hand closed around his buzzing phone, its vibrations against his skin calling him back to consciousness.

“Graham.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Matthew.” Will flopped onto his back, held his phone to his ear and blinked owlishly up at the ceiling. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes, answering, “no, not sleeping.” He looked around, found his glasses sitting on top of the pillow next to him, reached over and put them on. 

Matthew hummed—_disbelieving, maybe_— but said nothing for a moment. Will considered whether or not he should speak. But what would he say? _What’s up? What do you need? Why are you calling?_ None of them seemed appropriate. Let Matthew state his business without prompting. 

“Seems like your friend is getting impatient,” Matthew said after a beat. “I have another letter for you.”

Will sucked in a breath, held it in his chest and released it again slowly, on a count of five. His hand raked through his hair once before he came to a seat at the edge of the bed. “You’ve read it?”

A long pause.

_He’s read it,_ Will decided, _and is weighing whether or not to lie to me about it._

“Yeah, I did,” Matthew agreed at last. 

Now Will fell silent, debating. He knew he shouldn’t trust Matthew; even if he couldn’t quite see the man’s design yet, he knew that Matthew had formed it with Will specifically in mind. But for a moment, still half-asleep, still sick and still ailing _in that way_, he found he didn’t have the energy or the clarity of mind to deal with a new letter. So, even though he knew that this meant giving Matthew more power over him, he asked anyway. “Is it something that can wait until after the trial?” 

Matthew made a noise. Caught off-guard. But to his credit, he didn’t ask why; he merely answered. “I think you’d better read it.”

Will sighed. 

“I’m in the neighborhood,” Matthew went on. “I can drop it off at your house, if you want.”

_In the neighborhood. It's the middle of nowhere, nobody is ever just 'in the neighborhood'. _Will chose not to insult them both by pretending he didn’t know that Matthew knew where he lived. He wanted to say no, that he would meet him elsewhere, but he needed to be careful. Matthew seemed content enough to play courier for now, but without the right incentive he may lose interest. And where would that leave Will and Eldon?

“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it,” he said, and then, to give himself an out, added, “I have an appointment later this afternoon, so I can’t invite you in for long.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Matthew said, voice nearly effervescent. 

“Honk when you get to the gate,” Will called out, remembering to say so just as his thumb moved to hang up the phone. 

“Hm?” Matthew must have been about to disconnect too.

“Honk when you get here,” Will repeated. “I can’t keep buying new locks.”

A laugh, then, a startled and genuine thing. Had he thought that Will would keep mum about it forever? “Okay. See you in ten.”

Will ended the call, then got up off the bed to straighten the sheets. He ambled around looking for things to do, but the house, still pretty tidy from the morning, gave him nothing. He changed out of his pajamas and into the outfit he’d worn to Dr. Lecter’s on Thursday, still draped over the back of his reading chair. It wasn’t too badly wrinkled or smelly, and he wasn’t going to change into fresh clothes for what would amount to a very short visit. 

Exactly ten minutes from the end of the call, Matthew arrived. He honked twice, two short taps on the horn, the letter “i” in Morse code. Will decided not to let the dogs out this time, calling a “sit” and “stay” at them before exiting the house and making his way down the drive. Matthew’s car, a tired-looking sedan, had the shabbiness of a much older model—the kind of hand-me-down vehicle you’d expect a teenager to drive to school. 

He unlocked the gate and Matthew maneuvered through it and down to the end of the drive. By the time Will closed the gate again, Matthew had parked and exited his car to lean against the driver door, watching Will’s progress back to the house. 

_‘A hawk, Mr. Graham.’ _

He certainly had hawkish features. Narrow and angular, with those dark, gleaming eyes that followed his target’s movements much the way a bird of prey would. 

Will stopped in front of him for a second, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to keep his lips still, before gesturing to the house. “I have to get going pretty soon, but if you want to come in?”

Matthew followed him closely, almost uncomfortably so, into the house. The dogs were still sitting where they had when Will had commanded them to stay, though they looked about ready to jump out of their skins with excitement to greet their new visitor. Will clicked his tongue and they surged forward en masse, all seven snouts and noses assailing Matthew’s legs at once, their warm bodies blocking his progress into the house. 

It always interested Will how people reacted to the ebullience of his dogs—of _so many dogs_ at once. Matthew, who had seemed perfectly ambivalent about the pretty mutt at Jackpot, handled it surprisingly well. He lowered himself for easier access, laughing and cooing at them, scratching behind ears and patting necks with a look of earnest enjoyment. 

“Seven?” Matthew asked when he finally got back to his feet. 

Will had ambled over to his fridge and taken two bottles of beer, uncapping them before crossing back over to the living room. He would give Matthew until he finished his beverage before seeing him out. “Yeah. Here.” he handed a bottle over by the neck and Matthew took it with a dashing smile. 

“They look like a lot more, from a distance.”

This earned him a raised eyebrow. “Which reminds me to tell you that I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make any more unannounced visits,” Will said. He found himself pleased at how diplomatically that had come out—the ‘_get off my property_’ he’d bitten at Freddie Lounds wouldn’t quite work for this situation—and fancied that Dr. Lecter would be proud of him for it.

“I called this time, didn’t I?” Matthew said. 

They were still skirting around the night he’d left the package, touching lightly on the subject but never bringing it out into the open. “And every time from here on out.” For good measure, he cocked an eyebrow and leaned in a hair. “Please.”

Matthew’s cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red and he turned away, raising his bottle to his lips before walking over to the desk where Will’s fly-tying equipment sat, recently dusted but still long-neglected. He touched a finger to the feather before turning around, expression now back under control. “I may have to hop the fence, if I have to make a delivery when you’re not home?”

“So long as you don’t break my lock, and call before you come.”

“Afraid I’ll interrupt while you’re entertaining?”

This little joke made Will smile, but curiously his mind flitted back to the evening he had spent at Dr. Lecter’s house, and the sudden idea that the man, concerned with propriety as he was, might expect a return invitation. Reciprocity. 

_Imagine Dr. Lecter. Here. Oh, God. _

Will sipped his beer for something to take his mind off that terrifying prospect. “You got something you want to give me?” he asked, though the cogs of his mind still turned, thinking of how he would manage to dance around that conversation should Dr. Lecter ever raise the issue. 

Matthew’s little snicker reminded Will to be more careful with his choice of words. “I do,” he answered, but pulled a plain white envelope from his pocket. It had been sealed at one point, but the envelope had been ripped open. He noticed the trajectory of Will’s gaze and commented, “I would have replaced the envelope, but you already know I read it.”

“Reading a folded note and opening a sealed letter are different things,” Will argued, taking the envelope from Matthew’s outstretched fingers. 

“It’s not stamped or addressed,” Matthew replied, nonchalant, once more looking around the room. As though that made it better. 

“He’s not expecting an immediate reply, is he?” Will asked, running his fingers over the jagged, torn edge of the envelope.

“Expecting? No. Hoping, maybe.” He stooped to scratch behind Fonda’s ear as her body brushed against his leg. 

_Hoping_. Will put the envelope down on his nightstand. 

“You’re not going to read it?” Matthew asked, turning back around. 

“I’m busy this afternoon,” Will said, reminding Matthew of his little lie. “I want to give myself enough time to read it, formulate my thoughts.”

This drew a considering hum from his guest, who had wandered back over to the fly-tying gear. “You fish,” he observed after a moment. His sharp, dark eyes moved to Will’s face then, studying him closely. “You hunt, too?”

The subtext in that question could not be clearer. 

Will pursed his lips, considering how to answer. _Answer the question, or answer the subtext_? In the end, he gestured to the rifle racked on the back wall. “Not for a while,” he decided on at last. “Did a lot, as a kid, though, with my dad.” 

Matthew stared. Trying to solve the puzzle, pick out the truth. 

A sip of his beer. “You have family, Matthew?” 

“Not anymore,” he answered at length, still staring hard at Will’s face. “Hunting accident.”

“You have a lot of those?”

“Accidents? Not for a long time,” he took a swig of his beer, the corner of his mouth rising in a smug little smirk. “I’m a much better hunter nowadays.”

_Psychopath. Serial killer. _

Both boxes checked off, now.

“Better,” Will mused. _Does better mean ‘good’, though? _He didn’t want to anger Matthew by asking. “You don’t keep trophies all over the place, do you?” he asked instead. “Deer mounts and stuff?”

Matthew’s head tilted fractionally before he laughed. “No, no,” he said, and his eyes glittered with that combination of humor and fondness that Will recognized immediately as—

“I rent, can’t hang anything that heavy up, the whole wall would come down.” 

“Maryland?”

“D.C.”

“_That’s_ a commute,” Will observed, feeling silly for reverting to the traffic-related small-talk so prevalent in the metro area. But Matthew hadn’t seemed to notice; his chest had been puffing up progressively, more and more, as the conversation continued, and Will realized that he had never truly shown any real interest in _Matthew _before this.

“Better than Wolf Trap to Quantico,” Matthew answered, seating himself on Will’s couch. Buster hopped up and settled down against his leg, and Matthew’s fingers idly petted over his flank. “Or Wolf Trap to Baltimore.”

Will sucked in a breath. “Matthew,” he spoke the name slowly, his pitch increasing toward the end, the way it would when an unpleasant warning would follow.

“I googled that doctor’s office,” Matthew cut in. “Lecter?” 

Will frowned. _Googled_. He didn’t buy that, but he wouldn’t accuse the man of stalking him there. Not yet. “You’ve been reading too much TattleCrime.”

Matthew shrugged, took a quick sip of his beer. “I thought you’d rather see someone closer to home. Or did the FBI pick him for you?”

“I’m not _seeing him_,” Will protested. _Why_ did everyone always assume that? “We’re friends.”

“We should all get together some night soon, then,” Matthew said. “Good when your friends get to know each other.” He leaned forward, beer dangling from his fingers, suspended between his knees. “We _are_ friends, aren’t we, Will?”

Will licked his lips. “Would I have invited you in if we weren’t?” he asked, the words grating along his throat as he spoke them. 

This comment earned him a sly smile. 

“But it is possible for friends to annoy one another, Matthew,” he added, still frowning.

Another surprised little laugh. Had he expected to get away with his misbehaviour, just because of his special deliveries? But Matthew didn’t seem upset by the chastisement at all. He seemed delighted by it.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

_But_, Will thought, _he doesn’t say for what_. 

“Do you need a ride to your appointment?”

“No, thanks.” Will raked a hand through his curls before chugging down the rest of his bottle. “I do have to start getting ready, though.” 

“Sure.” Matthew slammed his beer too, then got up and walked over to the kitchen, directly to the cabinet that Will housed his recycling bin in. 

No hesitation.

Will balled his hands into fists, his nails digging hard into the skin of his palms, nearly drawing blood._ You’re not going to accuse the man of stalking you or breaking into your house,_ he reminded himself. _You can deal with that later._

“Let’s grab a bite next week,” Matthew said as he closed the cabinet door. “Say, Thursday?”

Will shook his head. “Busy Thursday.”

The little smile turned rigid again, all of the correct lines on his face, but taut and tense. His dark eyes burned, but not with pleasure. “All day?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “All day.” _Just _ask _me to explain,_ he dared him silently, letting the defiance show in the set of his jaw_. _

“Friday, then.”

“Friday,” Will agreed after a beat. 

Matthew left not long after. Will locked the front door of his house behind him, leaned against it and released a long breath. The next inhalation felt like the first one he’d taken since Matthew walked in. Buster bumped his nose against Will’s leg, and a little tension drained from him. 

“Some help you were,” Will groused at the dog. He changed back into his pajamas and wandered over to the couch. He sunk into the cushions, wishing they would absorb him whole and spare him the annoyance of a continued existence.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Matthew, and another immediately after it. 

[Don’t stay out too late on Thursday]

[We’re going for brunch]

Will shut the screen off and sighed. 

“I should call Doctor Lecter,” he announced into the room at large, the small sounds of his dogs moving around a familiar white noise.

But what could he say?

_Be careful, Doctor Lecter, I’ve got a murderer with a crush on me, and he’s not too happy about you?_

“I should call Doctor Lecter,” he repeated, taking off his glasses, and then swinging an arm over his eyes. The darkness comforted him; the plush cushions beneath his body warmed and lulled him.

_Later_, he decided. _First, a nap._

Will opened his eyes in an empty field, a winter breeze burning at his face, drying his lips. He rubbed the warmth into his cheeks before pushing himself to his feet. A quick glance up at the sky, where the clouds gathered overhead. The air had the distinct scent of impending snow, that sweetness, so humid and brisk. No shelter to be found here, but a small wood at the foot of the hill caught his eye.

Peeking out from between the treetops, a body of blue water gleamed and glittered in the lingering snatches of sunlight that caressed its placid surface. 

The water called to him. Even if he didn’t find his way there, the trees would offer enough cover from the snow, he reasoned.

He felt a rush of déjà vu as he started down the hill, but this feeling disappeared when he realized that with each step he took forward, it felt as though he were walking through water; the scenery around him passed, but slowly, tediously. It would be long past dark before he broke through the tree-line at this rate, even on such a steep downhill slope. 

He smelled the moment the pressure hit its peak, the moment that the clouds lost their struggle to keep the snow above them. Snowflakes caught the diminishing light, like falling facets from a disco globe, flitting and swirling on their descent to the earth. They landed on the skin of the back of his neck, or on his hands, or on his face. 

By the time that he made it into the wood, the benign snowfall had reached blizzard-like proportions. Dense, sticky clumps of snow pelted down to the ground, landing like bits of meteorite, exploding in little bursts of shattered ice, already piling up halfway to his knees.

The canopy provided some cover from the snow, but he had already gotten soaked through. His clothing stuck to him like a second skin, trapping the cold next to his body, stealing the heat from within him. The tips of his fingers had turned an alarming shade of purple-blue and, with the change in color, become clumsy and numb and useless. He trudged through the wood, desperate for shelter, someplace where he could strip out of his sodden clothes and try to build a fire, try to find some warmth. In his desperation, he lost all track of where his feet were carrying him. 

He broke through the tree-line, stumbling into a clearing, which sat curiously devoid of snow, the brown earth tilled evenly, the color almost warm when contrasted with the blue-tinged frigidity all around them. 

_This isn’t right,_ he thought, looking at the freshly turned soil on the ground in a neat, rectangular patch. _This isn’t what I was looking for_.

But maybe it would do. He touched a hand to its surface, and found the earth warm to the touch. So warm, so pleasantly warm, that his fingers almost burned with the return of sensation. He could—

He could bury himself here, in this warmth. Just until he felt the nerves come back alive in the rest of his body, until he could _feel_ again. 

He stripped his clothes, tossed them in a wet pile onto one corner of the garden patch, and walked into the center of the clearing to stand in the wide beam of moonlight peeking through the single gap in the blanket of clouds above. 

Around the clearing, the snow continued to fall. But here, standing barefoot on the fresh earth, Will felt rooted, safe, and secure. The warm pulse of the earth below him thawed his aching, insensate body, and welcomed him deeper below its surface. 

He dug his toes into the dirt, and it seemed almost delighted to rearrange for him, to let him further in, to bury him in its heat. 

It tugged him down, and he followed the movement, almost eager. He closed his eyes, sinking into the velvety warmth of the soil until it reached his knees, head turned up toward the sky. Above him, the clouds swirled, white and turbulent, backlit with moonlight. But here—

The screech of a hawk interrupted his reflections.

_What?_

He didn’t need to look far to find it. The bird of prey circled above him, its wicked talons held open as though ready to dive down and grab at him, its gleaming dark eyes reflecting some dark, unholy light. It dove once, its clawed grip closing around a lock of his hair, yanking sharply before the curl slipped through its talons. 

It climbed again, circling once more, preparing to dive. 

He needed to get out of the clearing. To find cover in the trees. 

He rose up onto one knee to free himself from the comforting grip of the earth, but instead of giving way to release him, the dark, tilled soil around him hardened, solid as concrete. 

Something closed tight around his ankle, and he knew deep in his gut that he had felt the grip of that deadened hand once before. The earth around him turned white as he watched, mirroring the sky, swirling and turbulent with the mycelium emerging from the soil, branching out in every direction. _Reaching_. 

The hawk dove.

A sharp yank from the hand around his ankle, and he sunk to his waist, the soil giving way where it had been stone around him moments before. The hawk missed its mark and climbed up yet again. Will leaned forward at the waist, fingers digging for purchase in the loose earth, searching for anything to grab hold of. Trying to haul himself to the snow-packed surface barely out of arm's reach—any kind of lifeline.

But while he panted with the exertion of his efforts, he ripped the growing mushrooms up from the roots, and when they dove back into the soil, anything he caught in his hands would only pass through his fingers. 

The hawk circled. 

He cast his eyes to the wood, hoping for a final recourse. Someone to ask for help. 

But instead of finding some_one_, he found some_thing_. A great beast, a giant stag, coat gleaming blue-black in the moonlight, eyes like polished onyx marbles, steam puffing from its nostrils. It took a step toward him, its hoof landing like a thunderclap on the soil as it came out from the trees.

Will reached blindly for it, opening his mouth to call for help. 

It lowered its great, antlered head.

_Nearly within reach_. 

His fingers and arm extended. 

The hawk dove. 

The hand below the earth pulled.

Will’s fingertips grazed the antlers, smooth as polished marble and just as cold. 

He didn’t manage anything more than a startled exhalation, before the earth closed over his head once more, the warm, soft earth filling his ears, nose, and mouth, its heat lulling him into a sleep from which he would never wake.

-+-

Hannibal, having seen all of his scheduled patients for the day, and knowing not to expect any additional company this Monday evening, set about tidying his office the moment that his final patient had left the room. He had plans, and did not want to waste a moment in seeing them through.

An unscheduled appointment with a young woman in the floral industry, who he needed to see regarding the replenishment of his larder. 

So it was with some consternation that he stopped in the middle of his walk to the coat rack by the door, halted by the ringing phone. His advertised administrative time lasted through the end of the hour, and he had three minutes until then. He must answer, though the prospect of a delay in his plans pained him. 

“Hello, Doctor Hannibal Lecter speaking.”

“Doctor Lecter,” came the halting, uncertain tones of Will Graham’s voice. 

Any annoyance he may have felt at the inopportune timing of the call dissipated in an instant. His plans were _unscheduled_, after all. He could afford a moment to speak with a friend. “Will,” he answered. “A minute later and I would have been out of the office.”

“I tried your cell,” Will said. Hannibal pulled it from his pocket and his brow popped up when he saw a total of _three_ missed calls, and all from Will.

“I keep my personal phone on silent during working hours,” Hannibal replied, leaning his hip against the desk. “Perhaps I ought to change that, during the administrative hours at the end of the day…?”

“No, that’s fine,” Will answered, breathing a ragged sigh. “I, uh, I’ll call the office line if anything important pops up. And this is nothing important anyway,” he went on. “Just calling to confirm if we were still meeting tomorrow.”

The blinking red indicator light on the phone caught Hannibal’s eye, informing him that he had another caller, but he elected to ignore it. He would check their voicemail in the morning. “Tomorrow at seven,” he agreed. 

“That’s not cutting into your administrative time?” Hannibal could detect a teasing quality in Will’s tone then. 

He smiled. “Not cutting into, no,” he said. “If, on the off chance, someone decides to call, you’ll forgive me if I answer.”

“Of course,” Will said.

A silence fell between them, but not the usual kind. Even over the line, Hannibal could hear Will fidgeting, feel the tension in his breaths. “Was there something else, Will?”

“It’s, um—” he coughed. “No, actually. It’s fine. Nothing that can’t wait ‘til tomorrow.”

For a moment, Hannibal considered pressing him on the subject, as he sounded so ill at ease. Instead, he said, “I’ll be sure to ask about it tomorrow, then. Do you care for anything specific for dinner?”

Will laughed, though with a nervous edge. “No preference, thank you.”

They exchanged farewells, and Hannibal hung up, though the phone started ringing again the moment his hand returned the receiver to its cradle. 

He glanced at his clock. Tidily after hours. He could allow this one to redirect to the answering machine as well, if he wanted. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment to gather his patience before answering it, on the off chance that Will had forgotten to say something and decided to call him back. “Good evening. Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s office.” He cradled the receiver between ear and shoulder, keeping his hands free to rearrange the small decorations on the top of his desk. 

“Doctor Lecter,” A woman’s voice. A jaded, cynical-sounding one. “I’m so sorry about all that.”

A blink. “I beg your pardon?”

“My brother calling. He has a way of making himself unpleasant.”

_Brother_? Hannibal had always imagined Will as an only child. But then the voicemail message indicator blinked and the pieces fell together. “I do beg your pardon,” he repeated. “I’m afraid I must have missed the call to which you are referring, though he has left a voice message.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Well. I was hoping to make an appointment, then, I suppose.”

“I am not accepting new clients at this time,” he informed her, projecting patience in his voice even as he drummed his fingers on the desktop. 

_A handset down the esophagus, _he mused, _body strung up by a telephone cord. _A compelling end for her, if he could get her business card.

“I hope you can reconsider,” she said, not sounding particularly hopeful. 

He listened as her apologies and a brief explanation of her situation wended their way down the line. By the end of her little speech, he had forgiven her the lack of appropriate introductions, of basic telephone courtesy. 

“I am not accepting new clients at this time,” Hannibal repeated, “but I believe that I can make an exception, given the particulars of your case.”

“Great,” she answered, and it came out so flat that he could not tell in the moment whether or not she said it in displeasure. 

“I have a limited number of openings in my schedule,” he flipped through his appointment book to the last few days of the week. His usual opening on Tuesday at seven had already been taken. Wednesday, full. Thursday at seven o’clock, he had Will’s name penciled in, awaiting confirmation tomorrow. His next opening wasn’t until— “Perhaps next week, Monday, at three?”

“Thank you,” she said, and again he could not pin down whether her voice carried gratitude or disappointment. 

“May I have your name…?”

“He didn’t say?”

“I’m afraid I have yet to listen to the message he left.” 

She sighed deeply, and he picked up his pen. In his typical neat hand, he filled in the three o’clock spot. 

_Margot Verger._

-+-

Chordophone String Shop, situated on a charming commercial street in one of the more well-off neighborhoods of Baltimore, occupied a converted home on the corners, a large red-bricked thing with—_is that a turret_? The only visible sign, a banner, hung from the second-story balcony, though there were audible signs enough: the sound of a violin stopping and starting, playing and re-playing the same few bars of music in practice. 

Will pushed open the front door, the bell above it tinkling to announce his entry, and walked into the small foyer. To the left, what would likely have been a formal dining room with all that wainscoting, had been converted into a display room for various selections of string; to the right, a larger room, probably a sitting room, now housed instruments for sale, bookcases with labeled bins filled with instrument paraphernalia, and two large tables covered in sheet music selections. 

He stepped into the room on the right, passing the small purchase counter tucked out of sight from the door, and wandered over to the sheet music, fingertips bouncing along from one alphabet tag to the next, looking for his composer.

_Ravel, Ravel, Ravel_. 

The violin upstairs continued to work the troublesome four or five bars, the music now punctuated by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, keeping time for the increasingly frustrated-sounding student. 

Will found the R section, enjoyed the irregular texture of the thick, heavy-weight paper that covered the first selection, admired the gilded scrollwork decorating the otherwise plain cover. 

The footsteps had stopped, but it took until Will flipped through to find the piece he’d been looking for and pulled it from the box, for their owner to speak. 

“You’re Will Graham.”

Will frowned, raising his head. He took in the tall, lithe African-American man, hair trimmed close to his head, tidily dressed in a three-piece suit and tie—though in solid, plain colors, not the bold fashion choices that Dr. Lecter seemed to favor. His eyes were dark, his expression flat, though the forward-weight of his stance made him appear to be nearly _vibrating_ with excitement. 

_Another storm-chaser_? Will thought briefly of the pimply-faced young man at the iHop near Quantico—_Jim_—and changed his mind. _No._ This man might read TattleCrime, but not with the same motivations. 

The man seemed to realize at last that Will wouldn’t answer, that Will would rather stare at him in silence instead; he took a step forward, extending a hand. “Tobias Budge,” he said by way of introduction. “Welcome to Chordophone.”

Will looked down at the neatly manicured hand before him, saw the tell-tale callouses on the fingers and palm, and reached out to shake it. “Hi.”

“I would offer to help you find something, but I see you already have.” His fingers extended toward the sheet music, but remained firmly inside the range of his own personal space. _Respectful_. “Do you play?”

“I will,” Will answered at last, “once I find someone to tune my piano. I’ve heard good things about the service here.”

This seemed to please Mr. Budge; his smile became a smug little thing. “Well, you have excellent sources,” he said, gesturing to the counter. “What type of instrument?”

Something in the man’s demeanor had changed. He had set aside his excitement at the sight of a—to borrow Matthew’s word—_celebrity_, and taken up the role of interested proprietor instead. The completeness with which he had put away his excitement, however, did not fall in the realm of typical. He looked, acted, and spoke like a different man entirely.

_Ah_. If he’d only looked a little sooner. Now things would be awkward.

“An upright,” Will answered, pocketing his reserve. “It’s an older Kawai. I have the serial number here—” he pulled out his phone and opened the photo he’d taken of the plate.

Budge pulled out a service appointment notepad and copied the serial number onto the form, filling in a few of the other fields after passing the phone back. “When was the last time you had it serviced?”

Will blew out a long breath, thinking back. “Maybe—I don’t know—three and a half years ago? Four?”

Budge’s eyebrows shot up. “Has it been moved since then?”

He shook his head. “No, and it won’t be again, either.”

This seemed to mollify Budge a little. He asked for a few more details—did it have castors? What type? Anything in particular that needed to be addressed? —and took careful notes on his pad. He scrunched his brow and looked down at what he’d written, considering. 

The price he quoted had Will’s eyebrows shooting up. “I’ll have to assume from what you’re describing that it will need a sizable amount of work, perhaps more than one tuning session,” came the justification. “If it’s held the maintenance from its last servicing well, we can adjust the rate down. Do you have a half-day available sometime in the next month?”

“I’m gathering estimates right now,” Will said, finding an opportunity to extricate himself from the situation gracefully. “Doing my research.”

“Always a good idea,” Budge conceded, “though you won’t find a better price, or receive a better service from my competitors.” His smile remained friendly, though his eyes were flat, opaque, and utterly cold.

Will nodded, setting the music on the counter. “Only the music for today, please.”

“Ravel,” Budge observed, back to his nonthreatening shop-keeper persona. “This is one of my favorites. Very evocative.” 

_Une Barque sur l’Ocean. _The thought sprung up from the recesses of his memory, uttered in Dr. Lecter’s lilting accent with its impeccable French pronunciation. And, of course, the next words that flitted through his head were too: ‘_Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god._ _Aristotle_.’ Will didn’t bother suppressing his smile. _Dr. Lecter can be pretty funny, can’t he._

“Heard it on the radio a while ago,” Will said, to justify the smile. “Made me want to practice piano again.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“On and off for twenty-odd years? Started a little later.” 

“After four years out of practice, you may find this piece a bit of a challenge.” This, delivered with a gentle smile and eyes fixed on Will’s lips. Will found himself captivated by the way that Budge’s eyes seemed to be entirely unaffected by the emotion displaying on his face. 

_Not the kind of man that feels much,_ he mused. _The kind of man that can turn his emotions off entirely, if it suits him. _

“I’m up for a challenge,” he answered. His eyes wandered from the sheet music on the counter and snagged on a CD on display in front of the cash box. 

Budge must have followed his gaze; he asked, “Do you like opera?”

If Will closed his eyes, he could pull up the memory of an evening in Dr. Lecter’s study, whiskey warming his belly, the fire warming his feet, and the low tones of the doctors’ well-modulated speech humming in his ears. In this memory, a silence fell between them, and the poignancy of a soprano’s voice over the orchestra playing, low in the background, brought a tingle to his fingertips. 

“Maybe,” he said, at last. “I’m learning to.”

“That is not a bad place to begin,” Budge answered, indicating the CD. “La Traviata is considered very accessible for those experiencing opera for the first time.”

Will hesitated for a moment. “I think just the sheet music. Thanks.” 

“Then that comes to nine dollars, forty-nine cents,” Budge said, ringing up the sale. Will dug a crumpled ten from his pocket, passed it over the counter. “I’ll expect to hear from you soon about your piano,” Budge opened his cash drawer and produced the change as he spoke. “An instrument like yours deserves loving hands to tune it.”

His weight shifted from one foot to the other. “Right.”

“Thank you for making the trip all the way out to Baltimore,” Budge added, handing over a hand-written receipt. “If you had called, I could have mailed the music out to you. Local delivery usually arrives the next day.”

Will pocketed the receipt, wondering how Budge knew he didn’t live nearby. Freddie hadn’t outed his address, at least, not as far as he was aware. “I had some other business nearby,” he said, before picking up his purchase and offering a final thanks. He felt Budge’s eyes on him even after he’d exited the front door, and knew if he turned around, he’d see the man standing in his shop window, watching his progress down the sidewalk toward his car. 

The drive to his next stop took longer than he thought it would, what with the local traffic and the late hour. He tuned the radio to the classical music station, though, to catch the very tail end of the opera that Dr. Lecter had played for him in the office that evening.

The night that he had lost time. _Or blacked out…? _He gnawed on his lip, still unable to decide which it was.

Either way, the selection was a pleasant coincidence.

It took him so long to find a spot, even one half a block away from his destination, that even one more loop around the block would have made him late. He shut off the engine and hopped out into the cold to jog down the sidewalk, one eye on his watch. 

_Don’t be late. _

But his lack of punctuality didn’t explain why Will approached the heavy front door, now a familiar sight, with restlessness twisting his stomach. He’d been looking forward to this meeting since he had left Dr. Lecter’s house, not four days ago. It felt odd to come here on a Tuesday, though. Somehow, spending time with his new friend had become a habit strongly associated with a different day of the week. If felt odd, but not unwelcome. 

And yet, excitement alone didn’t account for it. Neither did anxiety, his usual scapegoat for that sensation. This time , he knew better. 

Dread. 

_All thanks to Matthew._ His little conversation with Matthew, and the resulting need to alert Dr. Lecter to be more vigilant, without having to explain precisely _why_...

One more glance at his watch as he climbed the steps, two at a time. One minute to seven. With a deep breath in, the frozen air chilling his lungs, urging him to calm, he raised his hand to either knock or grab hold of the handle.

In the end, his fingers did no more than reach for open air, because at that precise moment the door opened wide before him to reveal Dr. Lecter standing in another one of his immaculate, daringly patterned suits.

The good doctor looked down at his own timepiece, and satisfaction shone in his eyes. “Hello, Will.”

Will lowered his hand to his side, focusing on keeping his twitchy digits still. “Hello, Dr. Lecter.” 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all of you out there are keeping safe and sane during this globally difficult period. What bizarre times we're living in. Very chaotic evil.  
I **am also writing a one shot ** to help keep those of you in quarantine or social distancing to pass the time. Will post it March 27thish or thereabouts depending how long it takes to edit!
> 
> AND!!! We're hitting the 100k word mark next update. Any ideas on how we should celebrate?
> 
> Also, at this point, we've introduced all the major subplots of the story in some way (even just little teaser-ey bits) *except for one*. Can you guess what new story-line will be added? 
> 
> Next update on 4/2!


	16. Sparse Details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few minutes later than intended! I fell asleep. I'm sorry.  
Approximately a 33-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Sixteen

Sparse Details.

-+-

In the four days since Will last showed up at Hannibal’s house, his scent had changed. Hannibal recalled with fondness the incredulity in Will’s question: _‘did you just _smell _me?’_

Since that night, the vague impression of that scent had ripened. Matured. Yes, he still carried the same bitter notes, the ones that Hannibal associated with his unusual ailment, but overlying that were sharp, acid top notes that seemed to refresh periodically in bright bursts whenever he sniffed, and the underlying muskiness of warm sweat…

_Will Graham has a cold_. 

In addition to his natural scent, Hannibal detected the distinct syrupy sweetness of cough syrup and the astringent bite of alcohol focused around his hands. Hannibal could appreciate diligent use of hand sanitizer. He also felt confident that Will, unlike many of his patients—or, more disconcertingly, his guests—would have the sense to corral his waste and discard it in the trash can appropriately. For all of his gruffness and his occasional lack of social graces, Will also consistently demonstrated thoughtfulness and respect for Hannibal’s space.

This evening, as usual, he helped Will with his coat, keeping one eye on his guest as he hung up the garment beside his own. Will wandered around the office in the meantime, picking up small objects to study before putting them back down, trailing fingers across the spines of books and over the backs of furniture. Hannibal noted on multiple occasions that Will seemed drawn towards uneven textures, frequently rubbing palms and fingers down the rough denim of his jeans and, when he came to Hannibal’s house, the velvet on the chair he occupied in front of the fire.

Usually his gaze would follow the path of Will’s hands, to discover what items drew his interest and which did not, to note the subtle changes in the arrangement of objects on his desk after Will passed by. He found his gaze drawn elsewhere this evening. In place of his usual button-down shirt, Will wore a light gray sweater, the edge of a red T-shirt peeking out from under the crew neckline of the soft knit. Perhaps, if they had met during the summer, Hannibal would be more accustomed to seeing this much of Will Graham’s neck. As it was, this peek at a stretch of skin not usually bared before him drew his eye more than once in those initial moments in each other’s company. 

“Are you at all hungry? Or shall we wait to eat?”

“I can wait,” Will answered, coming to his usual seat. “Haven’t had much of an appetite recently, if I’m honest.”

“Your cold?”

Will didn’t seem surprised that Hannibal noticed. “Yeah,” he agreed, and then on a long outbreath, added, “among other things.”

“Is one of the ‘other things’ the subject that you didn’t want to broach on the phone?” Hannibal asked, settling himself down in the seat across from his friend. 

His answer did not come immediately. He seemed to lose focus, gazing off into the middle distance, distracted. He gathered himself after a moment, however, and his gaze returned to Hannibal, landing somewhere in the vicinity of the knot on his tie. “There is something,” he admitted, before falling silent once more.

Hannibal waited.

“I told you the other night about Alana’s theory that I might be in trouble. That the Chesapeake Ripper might have some sort of interest in me.” He waited for Hannibal to nod before continuing. “And then there was the mysterious package delivered to my front porch.” His gaze moved down to his own fingers, now spread wide against his leg. 

“I don’t recall either of us being under the impression that the package on your doorstep was left by the Chesapeake Ripper,” Hannibal commented.

“No, of course not.” Will shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He sniffled. “The format might seem similar at a glance. The box on my porch and the one on Freddie’s. But there is no question in my mind that the originators were different. It’s just…”

So he caught onto that detail, then. They had never discussed it, so Hannibal questioned whether Will had noted the parallel, but _of course _he had noticed it. He must have simply ascribed it to coincidence, his own natural modesty preventing him from linking one with the other, the way he disregarded the mention of himself in the articles beneath the shaming mask, despite their very careful selection.

“It’s not a question, though, that somebody has me in their sights. Not the Ripper, of course, but somebody.” 

Hannibal could honestly say he had given no further thought to the package on Will’s porch. The one declaring so confidently, _I know who you are, Will Graham_. But now, in light of Will’s genuine appearance of distress, perhaps he ought to be giving it more attention. Will seemed perturbed by the notion now in a way that did not tally with his initial unconcern. At the time, he seemed unbothered by the gift itself; more disturbed by the inaccuracy of its claims than the fact of its existence. 

“Has something happened?” Hannibal did not have to feign concern when he asked this.

Will blinked owlishly, as though coming out of a trance. He met Hannibal’s eyes for a moment and then sent a longing look towards the liquor cabinet.

“A drink, perhaps?”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” 

Hannibal bypassed the hard liquor and produced a glass of red wine. Will never seemed picky about his wine or his spirits, though he did demonstrate an appreciation for the finer bottles, whether he knew they were finer or not. He poured two glasses, recorked the bottle, and brought one over to his guest.

Will did not rush to sample it; instead he swished it in his glass, letting the wine breathe and the aroma intensify. Though he did this often enough with his whiskey, perhaps as a form of distraction, something about this gesture struck Hannibal as unexpected. A refined gesture, uncommon in the surly, awkward profiler. 

“Yeah, something’s happened.” Will sighed, breathed in the bouquet of the beverage, and took his inaugural sip. He didn’t make Hannibal wait long for an explanation. “He’s reached out again.”

“You are certain this is a man?”

Will scoffed. “With that handwriting?”

Hannibal tilted his head, let a smile flit across his lips at that little joke. “What did he have to say?”

Now, Will appeared hypnotized by the wine in his hands. He would not look up; he did not look around. A shameful posture, borne out by the redness in his cheeks. _In some ways,_ Hannibal mused,_ Will Graham can be startlingly easy to read. _

In some ways, but not all. Not by a long stretch.

“He has had a lot to say,” Will confessed. Another sniffle. “On more than one occasion.”

It took a mere moment for Hannibal to connect the dots. “The telephone call that you were waiting for on the day you assisted me with the Lawrence Wells case?” 

“Yeah,” Will nodded.

_Ah, yes. _A conversation whose particulars Hannibal had mulled over at length, trying to decipher their meaning. Trying to determine their importance. Will seemed genuinely agitated afterward, though very little on his end of the conversation revealed _why_. 

Hannibal came to his own certain conclusions about it, however. Excitement bubbled up within him, a sudden eagerness to know if he had been correct; an extension of their wager, in a way.

Will had referred to the caller Matthew. He also made a reference to Dr. Chilton, something in jest. This recalled the orderly to Hannibal, Matthew Brown, the one who had kept his eyes on Will Graham for much longer than necessary on more than one occasion, the one who led them past Eldon Stammets’ cell.

When they went to the BSHCI, however, Will had not appeared to give Matthew Brown much notice at all, and though Will was capable of lying convincingly, Brown had appeared almost invisible to him at those times. Not the sort of dynamic that one can manage when exchanging casual telephone calls late into the evening. Their acquaintance must have begun after the conclusion of the Gideon case, then. 

What circumstances had precipitated it?

Hannibal also could not deny the dawning suspicion that Will might have intended his mysterious, “_I see it inside you, too,_” from the other night for Matthew’s ears, though at first he had thought them meant for Eldon.

“And what does your caller have to say, I wonder.” He expected another long, thoughtful silence to follow. For Will to weigh whether it would be safe to disclose the content of their conversations, or for him to attempt to deflect to another topic of conversation.

Instead, Will rubbed his hands into his eyes, let loose a long-suffering sigh, and then looked to Hannibal’s face. No eye contact, not quite, though his gaze landed near enough, probably skirting his cheekbones. “I think he’s a little jealous of you.” The usual grin, that pained thing, pulled up on the corner of his mouth, and his looked to the floor. He let out a shaky laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. “If you can believe that.”

Any sense of relaxation that Hannibal had experienced in his new friend’s company immediately dissipated at these words. His senses sharpened. His ears stretched to catch any sounds that did not belong, his vision cleared as his head turned toward the window on the off chance that a shadow should pass by at that precise moment. But aside from the discomfort of the profiler in front of him, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“He is jealous of our friendship,” Hannibal deduced, hoping to prompt Will into providing further information.

Will licked his lips, glancing up at Hannibal’s face. “Yeah,” he said, though his agreement lacked conviction. “He’s been looking into my activities.” A brief pause as he swirled his wine once more. “Said he googled you, but I’m not convinced that he stopped there. Or, if he did stop at googling that time, that he won’t the next time.”

Hannibal took a measured breath inward.

“He doesn’t seem to be planning anything, but I thought you should know. So you can be vigilant.”

_Matthew Brown_. Hannibal frowned. “And are _you _being vigilant, Will?”

“What?”

Hannibal took a sip of his beverage before he placed it on a coaster on the glass-top table beside him. He leaned forward, propping his forearms against his knees, and studied his visitor. Will seemed startled by the question, discomfited by the topic of conversation, but not otherwise aggravated, now that he had gotten the confession off his chest. “You seem concerned about the nature of his interest in me, whereas I find myself, given the contents of his previous gift, concerned that he might make plans regarding _you_.”

Will laughed now, a self-deprecating sound that grated on Hannibal’s ears. “Oh, he has plans for me, all right.” His body followed the template that Hannibal had set, putting down his wine and leaning forward into the space between them. 

This unconscious mimicry always delighted Hannibal, but now it bothered him. How quickly would Will Graham adapt to Matthew Brown? Did he have a habit of mirroring him too, now?

“But they’re not going anywhere, don’t worry. For all of his insistence that he knows who I am, he doesn’t know me at all. Not the way that I know him.”

A nebulous statement. An ominous one.

“Why not just turn him in?” Hannibal asked. A matter of course; Will would not reply. He allowed his attention to divert to a dark curl in relief against the pale skin of Will’s neck. 

Will leaned back in his seat, humming thoughtfully. “It’s complicated.”

“How complicated could it be?” Another routine question that Will would meet with silence or a change in topic. 

_Blackmail, perhaps?_ But he changed his mind immediately. _Not blackmail._ Matthew Brown had access to Eldon Stammets, who had remained notoriously tight-lipped since his imprisonment. Indirect access to Eldon would undoubtedly feel complicated to Will Graham.

No answer for a moment. True to form, when he spoke again, Will ignored Hannibal’s question. “Then there’s Freddie’s article,” he sighed. “But nothing’s going to change there. Really, what’s bugging me is what technicality let me win that bet.” His expression held humor when he looked back up again, and also a little sheepishness that acknowledged the poor attempt at deflection. 

Hannibal cocked his brow and leaned back in his chair slowly, but allowed the subject to shift.

He knew who they had been speaking of, after all. He could find his own answers.

“The technicality. Of course.” He gathered his thoughts for a moment, shifting gears in conversation. “Joel Summers and Marshall Fletcher were related, but in name only.”

Will, unsurprisingly, reached the correct conclusion in an instant. “The child of an affair?” He exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Lawrence Wells killed his own son, thinking he belonged to Fletcher Marshall?”

“Precisely.”

“I wouldn’t call that correct, even by a technicality, Doctor.”

“I beg to differ,” Hannibal said. “Joel Summers’ parentage was not under question by the killer. You took Lawrence Wells’ perspective, and interpreted his thoughts with perfect accuracy, regardless of whether they reflected the reality of the situation. Admirably done, Will.” A becoming flush spread across Wills cheeks, and Hannibal took a moment to admire it. “Thank you again for your help.” 

Will laughed again, this time a sound both pleasing and well-pleased. “I would like to say ‘anytime,’ but I shouldn’t. If I’m going to be working for Jack Crawford, I ought to at least get paid for it.”

“Are you saving your money for something special, then?” Hannibal asked, lightly teasing, not expecting a reply.

But Will gave him one. “Actually, I’ve been looking at getting my piano tuned. I didn’t realize the prices in the metro area would be so much higher than in Louisiana.” He took a sip of his wine, wrinkled his nose a little, and for a moment Hannibal worried that Will had been feigning his appreciation for the vintage. “I even stopped to get an estimate on the way here.” The derision in his voice accounted for the nose-wrinkling. 

“Did you need a recommendation? The gentleman who cares for my instruments does an excellent job.”

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I went to Chordophone String Shop, have you heard of them? Pretty well-reviewed online.” He clicked his tongue. “Didn’t really take to the owner, though.”

“Oh?” 

“Mm. Tobias Budge. You heard of him at all?”

_‘I told you about my friend Tobias.’_

He knew Franklin’s friend owned a string shop, had an interest in the opera, and did not eat dairy. But he had never heard much about his shop, or the quality of his services.

“I’m afraid not.”

“He seemed pretty convinced that I wouldn’t find a better rate or service in the metro area.”

Will seemed rather preoccupied about the price. Perhaps he ought not to mention the amount he paid for the tuning and maintenance of his harpsichord, let alone the baby grand in his house. “But you did not like him?”

He hummed in that abstract way of his, looking off to the side. “No. Something about him. Not sure what.”

_Ah. A lie_. Hannibal loved these little untruths that Will Graham dropped, like breadcrumbs for him to follow. 

Add another name to the list of people he must call on, to make his own discoveries.

-+-

Eldon’s second letter was a different animal than his first. 

Not written on fine paper provided by his lawyer, but penned onto generic printer paper. No attempt at legibility, instead scrawled in ball point, like the short note he’d written, again in a hasty hand.

Not nearly so formal, much more personal, and infinitely more specific. He still used veiled language, still alluded to some of their conversations in ways that any reader other than Will would not understand. 

He may give Matthew his mail to deliver, but Eldon did not trust him as much as he had seemed to in the last missive he sent.

Or, at least, he now made it clear to all parties involved exactly how much he trusted Matthew Brown: only as far as the delivery of his mail, and the protection of their contents from the press. But not a step further.

And thank God for that. With the frequency of communications he sent, and the increasing number of disclosures they contained, veiled though they may be, he had Will sweating. _Dear God, it’s like he _wants_ Matthew to know_.

Then again, maybe he did, if for no greater reason than to set a few boundaries, to remind Matthew that he had no place between them except as courier. After all, Matthew had access to Will that Eldon would not have for the foreseeable future, or possibly ever again.

But that was alright.

They’d talked about this.

_Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve had this discussion that makes this so surprising?_ Granted, the conversation had been short, but in Eldon’s usual way, clear and succinct. For him to be backpedaling now…

Will sighed and unfolded the letter to read it through once more.

> Dear Will,
> 
> I know I should be patient, and you know that I can’t be. One hastily scrawled off note meriting only a one-word answer could not suffice. I find myself laughable. I have gone my whole life without a need for human company, or even a particular desire for it. The human mind for all of its complexity and potential is a waste. But you know how I feel about human connection. You know how things changed for me.
> 
> How you changed them. 
> 
> I have some regrets. One day in Autumn; the look you gave me; an argument; a hurried decision. All things easily repaired, in hindsight. But certain things I would never change. One glimpse in summer; a mutual life; the first days before the last. 
> 
> Can you blame me for being impatient?
> 
> So this will be the last one, at least for a while. You have broken off to play a different field on the board. I respect that, and enjoy watching your moves, though the lens through which I get to see them is not always reliable.
> 
> I know I will see you again, and soon. Not long now before I am shut away forever. I know what you will say then, and I will not listen. You won’t blame me for not listening this time. What I want to know, you won’t say. What you say won’t be for me.
> 
> I don’t have your skill, I am not one of my mushrooms. But I feel as though a look from you will tell me what I need to know.
> 
> I hope it will.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> Eldon

Even in the low light of his bedroom, Will didn’t need to squint to read it; he knew it already by heart, the way he had learned all of Eldon’s communications by heart. He’d read this single sheet of paper hundreds of times over, probably, since the afternoon that Matthew delivered it. And each time, he questioned how things could’ve ended so poorly, picking apart what he could have said or done to have reached a different outcome. There had been little space in his life for regret for a long time, so wallowing in it felt painfully new. 

Disappointments, he had in spades. But rarely anything that he actively regretted; rarely anything that he wished he could go back and do over again. The end of his chance at romance with Alana Bloom, for example, still tasted bitter in his mouth, still filled him with a sense of humiliation and self-hatred. He could’ve handled that so much better. He should have looked sooner. And yet, even despite all of those feelings, he knew that given the chance, he would not rewind time to try over again. 

A topic he wanted to talk over with Dr. Lecter. He sniffled, rubbed the sweat from his brow, his upper lip, feet kicking the sheets off of his overheated body.

They had never seemed to get around to discussing the moment of his heartbreak when he visited the doctor at his home. Conversational tangents always seemed to distract them then, but Will still wanted to talk it through with him. Somewhere along the way, he had grown to value the doctor’s opinion, even on such personal topics as his failed overtures. 

Odd, considering that the doctor had yet to reveal very much about himself in turn, and what he _had _revealed rarely ever counted as personal.

In some ways, this felt true for Will and Eldon as well. 

They hadn’t known each other for long before Eldon had been caught. Still, under the circumstances, it stood to reason that they would become personal with one another, despite the brevity of their time together. It stood to reason that they would share an _understanding_.

‘_A mutual life_,’ he’d written. That was _‘seki’_. ‘_Breaking off to play a different field on the board_.’ _‘Tenuki’. _Tactical terms. Terms he’d had to learn while in Eldon’s house, during their many postprandial games, sitting across the Go board from one another. Without knowing the subtext, any other reader—_Matthew, for example_—would not understand what Eldon truly meant to say.

They had their own language. 

_Personal._

An understanding _for them_ to share. Nobody needed to know about that. 

Not the justice system, not the good doctor, and _especially _not Matthew Brown.

The question remained whether to send him an answer. _Better not_, he decided. Eldon would remain quiet until hearing back from Will. He would wait. For months, if he had to. So Will would say nothing and protect them both from any more of these impulsive disclosures.

These thoughts followed him as he got up, as he dressed, as he walked from the house to the shed; there, he picked up the antique revolver that he’d been putting back together. A few more minutes of work, and he could call this project finished. The owner of the grandfather clock he’d been expecting had dropped it off in the morning; with all the fine bits and pieces needed to fix the intricate clockworks, that project would keep him busy for a while.

But not busy enough. 

There were too many free hours—even if he managed to fill up his time during the day, at night, in his bed, his mind found no escape.

Even on the days where he felt relatively well. Things were improving, until he went to Dr. Lecter’s office to look over the Wells case and, despite feeling _just fine_, ended up losing time. 

Another new symptom. Add that to the sleepwalking… a lot was new, this time around. 

“Focus,” he chided himself, and found the attention to bring this little project to a close. 

_It really is a beautiful machine_, he thought, turning over the weapon in his hand. He had disturbed as little of the patina as he could while repairing it, so on the surface it looked unchanged. Now though, behind it’s intricately carved and elegant façade, it contained the potential to take a life. 

He placed it into its container, wrapping it with all the love and affection with which a mother might swaddle her baby, and included a note for his client, as he always did. Nothing as sappy as a thank you note, no: a carefully penned list of all the work that he completed, parts he had replaced and their origins where possible, and information on proper care and maintenance. He brought the box with him to the house, away from the reach of curious snouts, and settled his car keys on top of them. A reminder to take it to the mail the next time he went out.

His hands were too cold to go back out and begin work on the grandfather clock. And, it being a Wednesday, he had no evening plans to look forward to. So, after honking his nose into a tissue, he settled down next to his computer, pulled up a list of piano tuners on the screen, and began to make phone calls.

-+-

When Hannibal opened his front door to admit Alana Bloom, she stood silhouetted by a leisurely and light snowfall. “Hannibal,” she greeted through the paisley scarf that obscured the bottom of her face. 

“Alana.” He stepped aside to let her in. “How was your drive?” He asked as he helped her with her coat, a daring red thing in a wool-poly blend. She had already started through the foyer toward the kitchen, only slowing her step so that he might catch up. 

“The roads were a mess,” she said over her shoulder. When she got to the kitchen door, she stopped in her tracks. “Oh,” she said. “I thought we’d be cooking.” After all, he made a habit of giving her some menial tasks to assist with in the meal preparation; but now, the counters were indeed clear.

“I do always seem to be in the kitchen when you arrive,” Hannibal murmured. This evening, he waited for her arrival in his library, sitting in the chair Will had occupied on his visit, turning possibilities over in his head. He passed by her and took a sniff of the roast in the oven, which was only now teetering over into ‘ready’. “Our dinner is almost done.”

“Do you need a hand with any of the garnish?” she asked, taking a step toward the counter. 

“Thank you, but I found myself exceedingly productive prior to your arrival,” he said. “Everything is ready. Please,” he gestured to the chair in the corner. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”

Her eyebrows flew up, but she did as he said. He watched her lower herself into the chair that Will had sat in not so many nights ago, and while it seemed more appropriate than having her behind the counter now, it still didn’t suit him perfectly. 

“I could set the table,” she offered. 

“Already done,” he said, shooting her a smile. He opened the fridge door. “Can I offer you a beer?”

“Mm,” she replied, “thank you.”

The bottle, yet another from her own private reserve, felt the perfect temperature in his hands. He passed it to her, forgoing the offer of a glass which she always declined, and she eyed him as she took it, her head tilted, a secretive, amused smile on her face. Hannibal could see that she perceived a difference in him; that she noticed he had been holding her at a distance. “May I request your help to assemble the dessert, when the time comes?” He asked, purely to mollify her.

She laughed and agreed, and the assessing light in her dwindled and disappeared. 

Excellent. 

“I should like to invite you to dinner again next week, on Friday.” He said, pulling plates from their cabinet, preparing to serve. “I have reason to believe that Will Graham will at last accept, and we can have our long-overdue celebratory dinner.”

Her lips formed a perfect ‘o’, her cheeks colored faintly. During the pause that preceded her answer, her eyes slid to the side, avoiding his own. “What are you celebrating?” She asked. “We already toasted to the closing of both the major cases he worked.”

“_We_ may have, but Will was unavailable for that celebration. And as he brought a close to both, I feel that warrants a repeat.”

Alana nodded absently. “Well, unfortunately, I’m busy next Friday. Though it’s a shame to miss any of your meals.”

“Busy on a Friday night?” Hannibal kept his tone lightly teasing. “It can’t be work,” he mused. “Should I be extending a plus one to you from now on?” He turned to the oven and pulled the roast from within, giving Alana a moment to stew over his question.

“No,” she sighed, immediately giving up the ruse. “And you’re right, it’s not work either.” When Hannibal turned back, she had her eyes on her hands, held tightly in her lap. “When was your last appointment with Will?” 

He did not entirely mask his displeasure with that question, though he softened it for her benefit. “I will remind you that he is not my patient.” 

“Right, sorry,” she said. “I’m not doubting that, just having a hard time getting used to the idea.”

“Is the prospect of our friendship so unexpected?” Serving utensils now in hand, Hannibal set about portioning their meals, the glazed carrots arranged artfully on one side, the roast florist on the other.

“On a number of levels,” she laughed.

Hannibal’s fingers clenched around the handle of the serving fork.

“Will is almost pathologically introverted,” she went on, a hyperbole unsuitable to a psychiatrist. “He doesn’t take inquiries into his well-being or thought processes well. I’m surprised that he would be so accepting of someone as curious as you. Always asking questions,” this last statement delivered with a twinkle in her eye and the teasing tilt of her brow.

Usually, Hannibal would find this part of her charm. This time, however, it fell flat.

“And beyond the differences in your personalities, outside of your consultation work for the FBI, your interests seem to lie in totally opposite directions.” A little laugh puffed through her nose. “Now that he isn’t working any cases for Jack, it’s hard for me to imagine what the two of you would have to talk about.”

She glanced up, perhaps noticing his silence, his stillness, and zeroed in on the downturn of Hannibal’s lips. “It’s taking me time to get used to the idea, when I had such a strong impression that the two of you had a professional relationship,” she said, backpedaling, apologetic. 

When had he last allowed her to see him so overtly displeased? Not since her student days, surely. Long before he had ever considered admitting her to his kitchen. He reached for a towel and cleaned the edges of the dishes. A little reminder that she could not get away with any impertinence would do her well. With a smile, he asked, “Would you get the door?”

Alana jumped to her feet to do his bidding.

“Will has a beautifully philosophical turn to his mind,” he said, arranging the dishes down on their place settings, resuming the conversation. “He is well read, has intelligent opinions, and demonstrates an open-minded intellect that I have found to be rather rare. He makes for a delightful conversational partner,” Hannibal added, affecting thoughtfulness in his voice, as though he could understand her questioning their ability to find something in common. 

“I can see that, when you say it. But it’s not the perception of him that my mind defaults to.”

“All of us are faced with limitations in our perceptions of others. Except perhaps for Will Graham.” This, with a little grin tossed over his shoulder as he moved to the sideboard for the bottle of wine decanting there.

Alana laughed, taking her usual seat at the right of the head of the table. “You don’t think that Will’s perceptions are limited?”

“They certainly can be. But given sufficient information, and the desire to see, I believe his ability to perceive the truth in others to be limitless, or near to it.” He rested his wrists against the edge of the table, fork and knife in hand, and tilted his head to his shoulder. “I am further of the opinion that he intentionally shuts himself off from the strength of his perception. In the name of self-preservation, in many cases.”

“Not always successfully,” Alana replied, evidently thinking of the criminal cases, rather than the personal ones. She made a quiet little moan of pleasure the instant that her lips closed around her fork. “Delicious.”

He took a bite of the roast, satisfied, but didn’t allow the compliment to distract him. “A painful gift.”

“Perception is a tool pointed at both ends,” Alana intoned, reaching for her beer.

“But one which he is capable of wielding without self-injury.” It would take some practice, but Hannibal felt certain that he could help Will fortify the walls of his mind from any other outside influence.

“You see him as a superhero,” Alana teased.

“I see him as a man with an exceptional gift.” Hannibal corrected. “How do you see him?”

“Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole,” she said, setting down her utensils in favor of her napkin. “Grabbing onto all the wrong things to try to soften the blow when he hits the bottom.”

“Loose clumps of dirt that crumble between his fingers, rather than the solid roots of well-established trees?”

Alana stopped twisting her napkin in her lap and smiled up at Hannibal. “Yes, exactly.”

One more little push. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to clarify your metaphor, Alana. I am dangerously close to believing you are referring to my friendship as a loose clump of dirt, and would like to continue believing that you hold it in higher regard than that.” This, said with a smile, to let her know that he was at least partially teasing.

“Oh,” she said, blinking once. “I can see how you would’ve gotten there, without context.” She took a long sip of her wine before elaborating. “He’s sick. He’s not dealing with his trauma well. I’m sure that your friendship is giving him some support, but I don’t think it will keep him from falling the rest of the way.” A brittle smile flashed on her face in apology for her words. 

“If you class our friendship as the root, what is the dirt?”

“You know,” she said, waving her hand through the air vaguely. “Cutting down on cases, but holding onto the worst of them all. Refusing help when someone offers it to him. Grasping at ill-advised romantic attractions instead of building a supportive community.”

_There_. His patience paid off. “Ill-advised romantic attractions?” Hannibal repeated. He sat back in his chair a little, pretending to think. “That seems rather specific.”

“Well,” she started, eyes round.

He took advantage of her floundering to add, “Strange that he should not have mentioned such a thing to me in our past conversations.”

“Maybe it’s not the kind of topic that would come up in the middle of philosophical discussions, is it?” she asked, loading up her fork, making herself busy. “Too personal?”

“Perhaps, though he has made numerous disclosures equally personal, which I am quite certain he would not share with anyone else.” He paused for effect, then raised his eyes to look Alana in the face before tilting his head fractionally to the side. “Though… He might not mention romantic interest, out of respect for the other party, assuming they are a mutual acquaintance.”

That Will had no such reservations did not escape his lips. 

Alana’s mouth popped open in disbelief.

“You did ask when I last spoke with him, didn’t you.”

“Hannibal.”

“Has Will asked you on a date, Alana?”

“Oh my God.” Her face flamed, going a shocking shade of red, brighter than her winter jacket.

“Ill-advised…” he quoted her, musing. “You have turned down his advances then.” A click of his tongue before he picked up his fork and knife, the cutlery as light in his hand as the joy bubbling in his chest at her discomfort. “A shame, in my opinion. You would have made a _cute couple_.” His lips formed the phrase as though the words were foreign to him. In a way, they were: he would otherwise never have used that turn of phrase in conversation. Especially not in application to Will Graham and Alana Bloom.

But here, Alana coughed around a hastily downed mouth full of wine. “_Hannibal_,” she reproved him at last, once the coughing came under control. “It would be a terrible idea. He’s not in an emotional position to be a good partner to anybody. And I am not in a position to be a good partner to _him_.”

In terms of his prospects for an evening’s entertainment not involving Will directly, this could hardly be beat. 

“A good partner to _him_. Which means that you could be a good partner to somebody else.” Alana gasped, her cheeks colored again, though not in outrage. “Too much professional interest in Will’s special gifts?”

She looked back down into her lap, the blush fading quickly. “Yes. I do find him interesting. He would make for a phenomenal case study. We could learn a lot from him, use what we learn to help others. But I’m equally concerned about helping _him_. He’s _sick, _he’s unbalanced, and he needs psychiatric care. And honestly, I’m starting to worry he might need medical care as well.” When she raised her eyes to meet his, determination burned within them. “And, frankly, a police detail.”

Hannibal leaned back in his seat. “That’s quite the prescription.”

“Maybe he’ll listen to you. He… he thinks he’s impervious, now that he’s survived encounters with two serial killers. But he’s not. He’s underestimating the risk of being so visible, with the way that Freddie keeps portraying him in her articles, and the kinds of people who have taken an interest in them.”

“I’ll discuss it with him,” he said, after a suitable pause. Technically, he already had, but those particulars weren’t relevant to this conversation. 

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she said, relief written into the visible relaxation of her shoulders. For a moment they resumed eating.

“I do find myself curious,” Hannibal started, after a peaceable silence had fallen between them. “Were he to seek the care and protection that you recommend, would you reconsider your stance on his suitability as a partner? Or has the professional interest become too difficult to override?”

Alana looked at him for a long moment, an assessing light in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, and that served as answer enough: she wouldn’t reconsider. “I’ve never seen you play the part of a wingman before, Hannibal.”

He didn’t hide his smile as he replied, “What one does in the name of friendship,” before tucking into his meal. 

She laughed, watching him eat for a moment before resuming, herself. Once or twice she looked up at him again, and the light of a disabused notion shined in her eyes—a little sadness at a lost possibility, perhaps.

A feeling he gave no notice. 

_An all-around excellent outcome to the evening. _

Hannibal’s good mood followed him into the morning. He texted Will to confirm their plans to meet in the evening, as usual, never mind that they had done so the day before last, and Will replied with a near-instantaneous affirmative. With a buoyancy in his step, Hannibal went about his morning ablutions. He stood in front of his closet a good ten minutes longer than his wont, debating first on shirt colors, and then between ties. The wet, icy roads and abysmal traffic did not test his composure, nor did the round he had to make of the room with disinfectant wipes after his first patient had left.

Jack Crawford’s car pulled up outside Hannibal’s office mere moments after his last morning patient pulled away from the curb. The first cloud on the horizon of Hannibal’s day. He met his guest at the door, ushering him in out of the sleeting weather, taking his sodden coat and hat, and following him back into the office. 

“A personal visit,” he observed. “Must be something important.”

“I would’ve called,” Jack said, by way of apology. “But it’s something we want to get moving on sooner than later.”

“A case then,” he concluded, and walked over to his desk, where Jack had dropped a slim manila file. 

Jack’s fingers remained on top of the file, preventing Hannibal from accessing its contents. “You got a strong stomach?” he asked. 

“A surgeon’s stomach,” Hannibal confirmed. “Is it so gruesome?”

“Not gruesome per se,” Jack said, releasing the file at last and taking a step back so Hannibal could examine it. 

But Hannibal waited, taking in the tired lines around Jack’s eyes, the disheveled appearance of his clothing. He must have received the call early, left for work in a rush. “Not gruesome,” he prompted, when Jack remained silent.

“Children, Hannibal,” he said, and rubbed a hand over the top of his head. “He offs the whole family. Children, too. Like some kind of sick Norman Rockwell painting.”

A violence rose in Hannibal’s gut, choking him momentarily, rendering him unable to speak. He moved a notebook square to the edge of the desk, adjusted a loose pen to run in perfect parallel alongside it. “I will follow you to Quantico,” he said, instead of reaching for the file. “Allow me a moment to cancel my afternoon appointments, first.”

Jack nodded, grim but satisfied, and took himself off without a word. Hannibal remained perfectly still as Jack collected his belongings, did not stir until he heard the car door slam and the vehicle roll away. 

When he did move at last, it was to lick his lips and reach for the handset of his phone. 

It rang twice before connecting, a distracted “Graham,” grunted down the line.

“Will,” he said. 

“Oh. Doctor Lecter.” A brief pause. Hannibal found a glimmer of satisfaction in the way Will’s voice changed when he realized the identity of his caller. “Has something come up?” 

“I’m afraid so.”

“A case.”

“Yes.” He licked his lips again. “I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule.”

Something must have come across in his voice. A tension, perhaps. Some note that Will picked up on, that told him exactly what to say and how to sound when he spoke next. “You can call me if you need to,” he said, soft, comforting. The implication: _For support_. Hannibal chose to believe that he made this offer as an extension of their growing emotional involvement, rather than an offer to assist with the particulars of the case.

“Thank you, Will.” He hesitated for a moment. “I have a few calls to make.” He excused himself, they said their goodbyes, and the call ended.

Hannibal rescheduled his afternoon patients as well as the ones planned for the following day before locking up his office. His phone vibrated in his pocket as he started the engine of the Bentley; he fished it out while waiting for the car to warm. 

An address. 

For a split second, he assumed Jack texted to redirect him to a crime scene, until he read it through to the end: Wolf Trap, VA, 22182.

Not from Jack. His eyes darted up to Will’s name in the corner, and he held his breath. 

Another message followed. [In case you need a coffee on the drive back to Baltimore. 24 hour service.]

The olfactory memory of the burnt coffee in Will’s thermos on the day of their first meeting made his stomach turn.

And yet, though fleeting, Hannibal felt himself smile.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY TEAM, we have a new case for the next few chapters! It's an important one for the story, though it only got a quick glance in the show. How are we all doing with the plot? Any burning questions? Things you need explained? Go ahead and ask away!
> 
> Also, does having estimated reading time at the top help you out at all?
> 
> In personal news, all of my work shifts for the month of April have been cancelled so I'm temporarily off work. This hurts my wallet, but works out well in that it gives me more time to move house, and also to write. I have been doing SO MUCH WRITING, too. 
> 
> In case you missed it, I _did_ write that one shot! You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375650). If you're going to click, just be aware it's E-Rated!
> 
> ** update re: ch17:** the next update has been delayed by either one week or two. As you may know, we’ve recently bought a house and were supposed to move in this week, but there have been a ridiculous number of issues with the new house, and I have come home so exhausted every single day I haven’t had the cognitive energy to edit the next chapter. It’s already written, just needs edits. Hopefully within the next week I can find the brain space to write a little and pump it out. I’m sorry for the delay, but I promise I’ll make it worth it in the end. SOMEHOW.


	17. Hand-Selected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, and with apologies for the delay.  
Approximately a 36-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Seventeen

Hand-Selected.

-+-

“I’ve been meditating on the subject of family,” Dr. Lecter said, breaking the comfortable silence.

They sat in their respective chairs in the doctor’s sitting room, each holding their own glass of red wine, an entire week after the cancellation of their regular Thursday evening plans. Will looked up at his friend—and somehow, now the title felt as though it were really starting to fit—at the distant expression on his face, the way his lashes had lowered slightly, shading his eyes from view. 

“The case you’re working?” Will asked. 

“The same,” Hannibal replied. “Though I referred to generalities, rather than the particulars of the investigation.”

Will hummed a little, waited. The rarity of the situation struck him. _Wasn’t I thinking about this the other day?_ Dr. Lecter rarely volunteered information or made comments one could call personal. He seemed to have no compunction in asking about Will’s life and experiences, in trying to peek into the workings of his mind—_Psychiatrists_, Will thought, a little more affectionately than usual—but kept his own history, life, and experiences close to his vest. 

Another rarity: Will found himself in the unique position of attempting to elicit commentary from Hannibal, instead of the other way around. His eyes drifted down the length of Hannibal’s arm to his hand, where it rested casually on his own knee. The room felt warm from the fire, but Will felt disproportionately hot—he ran a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt, and the droplets of sweat beading there collected into a little rivulet that ran down the middle of his back.

_He won’t answer a direct question_. Not for an opening volley. He would find more success in drawing Hannibal out if he presented him with a little bait. “I’ve never had much of a concept of family.”

This seemed to perk the doctor up. His posture righted, became more alert. He leaned slightly forward, one of his brows raised in interest. “No?” When Will didn’t answer, he prompted, “Tell me about your mother.”

“I’ll remind you I’m not your patient,” Will chuckled, a token protest. “And that’s some lazy psychiatry, Doctor.” Hannibal’s smile was immediate, though fleeting. Will gnawed on his lip for a moment before answering. “I never knew her. My _dad_—” he sighed. “Well. He never knew _me_.”

“Could not understand the turn of your mind. Appreciate your special gifts.”

“A gentle way of putting it,” Will agreed. He picked up the wine from the small table between their chairs and took a slow sip. Oaky, dry, with a long finish and not so heavy with tannins that he could preemptively taste a hangover—a good wine. “I let him think I outgrew it once I hit puberty.”

This earned him a brief smile—the barest lifting of one corner of Hannibal’s lips—in response. “What a choice for a child to make. To bury the truth of themselves, to ease their parents.”

“Difficult, but not so unusual,” Will replied. He let his gaze wander, eventually landing on the leaping orange glow of the low-burning fire in the hearth. “I didn’t see much of him as a teenager, anyway. Easier to hide when you’re rarely in each other’s company.”

“Was he so busy?”

“Mm.” Hannibal’s interest seemed particularly sharp tonight. “He worked the docks, boatyards, up and down the Mississippi. A transient’s life.”

“And you, always the new boy at school. Always the stranger.” 

A familiarity in those words, in that tone. _He seems himself in them._ “Always a new opportunity to create a version of myself that would fit in, or at least go unnoticed,” Will added. “I moved back to New Orleans after graduating college, saw him once or twice a year. And then when I moved up to Virginia he came to stay with me for a while. Before he died.”

Hannibal hummed, settling further back into his seat.

Will breathed in deeply, trapping the air in his chest to fortify himself before asking, “How old were you when your parents passed?”

For a long moment, the doctor didn’t move outside the steady rise and fall of his chest. Will perceived a tension in the back of Hannibal’s hand where it sat still on his knee, as though his body had stiffened to the skin at the question. 

“I was but a boy,” he said at last, not taking issue with the fact that Will had put the pieces together, had dared to ask. “It was a time of great civil unrest. I lived in an orphanage for some years after they left us, before my Uncle Robertas found me.”

_Us._ Will swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. Curiosity tingled on the tip of his tongue, wanting to know if it had been a brother or a sister that Hannibal lost after his parents’ death. Younger, Will knew, from the clench of Hannibal’s jaw. But he would never be indelicate enough to ask—not when the pain of this confession screamed from Hannibal’s eyes: still averted, still attempting to protect himself. “Have you never wanted a family of your own?” he settled on instead, knowing that for at least a while, Hannibal had played father to his sibling.

At this fresh line of questioning, the doctor’s eyes raised themselves from the middle distance, tracing over Will’s face. An unsettling gaze. Intense, questioning. “I have never found a partner with whom I would want to share one,” he said at length. “Though the idea has always had a certain appeal.”

“You would delight in the chance to form another mind,” Will observed, lightening the mood by lightening his tone. “To guide their thinking and inform their tastes.” The wine glass tipped and tilted in his hands. 

“I won’t deny the appeal,” Hannibal said, that fleeting smile gracing the firm lines of his lips once again. “I won’t ask you the same, as I already know the answer.”

“Oh?”

“You have already made a family around you,” Hannibal said. “With your seven dogs.”

“You’re right,” Will huffed, feeling the beginning of a laugh bubble in his chest.

“Would you never desire a child?” Hannibal asked.

For a second, he recalled thinking once, vaguely, of the possibility of a future with Alana that entailed such a desire. His dad had wanted Will to use the money from his estate to support a family of his own. Well. Maybe someday, but for now there didn’t seem to be any hope of seeing that desire through. 

“I’ve never given it much thought.” He swallowed, tilted his head to the side. Still teasing, he said, “I’m having a hard time seeing _you_ with children. You’d have to relax some of your standards of cleanliness and politeness.” The idea of Dr. Lecter’s pristine suits covered in spit-up genuinely made him want to laugh again. Or cleaning grubby fingers, or dealing with a lice scare. “And hygiene.”

Hannibal didn’t respond.

_Did I overstep?_ He glanced up at his friend’s face and his concern dissolved immediately. Hannibal didn’t seem offended by this little jest. Another easy, relaxed smile, rather than one of the stiff, polite ones he handed out so often during work. 

“It’s true that there is very little room in my life for a child right now. But it is a space that I would willingly make, with the right partner beside me, if the correct opportunity arose.”

The second reference to a “right partner”. _Who could make a ‘right partner’ for him?_ Hannibal seemed so disinterested in the people around him whenever they were together, that the idea of his pursuing a relationship with someone seemed foreign enough to be jarring.

But Will let the thought pass.

“Not a fan of the ‘cobble together your own’ approach, then?”

A thoughtful pause. “My uncle and his wife, Lady Murasaki, adopted me and brought me into their home. They provided an education and supported me as parents should. But there was always a distinction preserved and maintained. A certain distance.”

Not parents, but guardians. _All the right gestures, but an absence of love_. For all that Billy Graham didn’t understand his son, and had difficulty accepting the part of him he _couldn’t_, he never failed to make his love known. Even if he couldn’t be around enough, even if he couldn’t be supportive enough.

“You doubt whether a found family can compare to one raised from scratch.”

“I have been meditating on it,” Hannibal repeated. “While it was not the case in my personal experience, there are certainly those for whom the model has worked.”

“That wouldn’t happen to include whoever is involved in the case you’re working, would it?”

Hannibal opened his mouth to answer, but the oven timer started beeping in the distance, calling him back to the kitchen. Will let the subject go for the moment as he trailed after Hannibal through the house. 

Once in the kitchen, he moved toward the seat he’d occupied the last time, ready to entertain via conversation and to spectate as the chef worked his magic. But Hannibal, after confirming that the oven had reached temperature, didn’t dive right into the cooking. Instead, he leaned over the counter toward his guest and asked, “Are you at all handy with a knife?”

_Am I._

“Competent enough for my own needs,” Will answered, one eyebrow cocking upwards. He licked his lips, came to his feet. “Whether that is true for yours, I’m guessing we’ll find out?”

Hannibal chuckled. A pleasant sound, low and warm. He pulled a knife from his knife block, and extended it toward Will, handle facing out. A sudden rush of nerves brought Will to a pause before reacting. He took a fortifying sip of his wine, set the glass back down on the convenient little side table, and then walked up to the counter to reach for the knife. Before his fingers connected with the smooth metallic handle, Hannibal flicked his wrist, snapping the knife just out of Will’s reach.

“Oh!” Will startled, then huffed a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t play with knives, Doctor.” This time when Will reached for it, Hannibal remained still, though one of his cheeks twitched with the effort to suppress a grin. The knife felt heavy in his hand, with a long blade that looked immaculately sharp. _Of course a surgeon_ _would refuse to work with a dull knife._

“At home, I usually test for sharpness by pressing my finger against the blade,” Will lied, hoping to see the doctor wince, though he remained entirely unperturbed. “I’m not foolish enough to try that with _this_. Would be just my luck to cut a finger off.”

“It _would _be your luck, as you are in my home, and I was a surgeon in a past life.” This quip delivered lightly, one hand motioning Will to the other side of the counter. “Please reassure me that severing digits is not part of your standard operating procedure with knives?”

“Only sometimes,” Will snorted, feet already moving, bringing him closer to his friend. “I will admit, though, that after seeing this,” he gestured to the knife, “I’m thinking I ought to sharpen the ones I have in my drawers.”

“Bring them with you next week,” Hannibal said, pulling produce from drawers in the fridge, setting them on the kitchen counter as he spoke. Something about the casual assumption that they would meet again like this, without pretense and purely from a desire to share each other’s company, surprised Will.

_It shouldn’t_, he thought. _We’re friends_. Hadn’t they been doing this for a while? Though always with a preceding invitation, always with a pretense.

“I’ll sharpen them for you,” Hannibal went on.

“Thank you, I will.” Now leaning against the chef’s side of the counter, Will watched and waited for further instruction.

“If you wouldn’t mind preparing the salad,” Hannibal said. He gestured towards the produce he had brought out. “Trim the stems from the arugula, thin slices of the beets, and a rough chop on the nuts. When you’ve finished, I will instruct you further.”

“You’re supposed to trim the stems?”

A pause before Hannibal answered, as if he were weighing whether the question were meant in jest. “Yes.” Another beat, and then, “the trimmings will be used for a pesto sauce,” as he put the rack of lamb, which had been resting on the counter, inside the oven. 

Will watched for a moment as the doctor’s capable hands set about doing something fancy on the stove with rainbow-colored carrots and parsnips, before turning to his own tasks with a sense of humor. 

He broke the silence that had fallen over them when his thoughts circled back to their conversation in the sitting room. “Now you’ve got me thinking about family, too,” he said. He donned the pair of gloves that Hannibal had left for him next to the beets—not the saggy food prep gloves he’d used when he worked fast food one summer in college, but nitrile exam gloves in a light powder-blue—and started slicing the beets as evenly as he could.

It took some concentration. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped talking until Hannibal turned from the stove to prompt him. “Did you spend much time with your father, helping in the kitchen?”

The cuts weren’t coming perfectly even. _The pressure on the handle of the knife is varying too much_, he observed, eyes on his now red-stained fingers. Hannibal had turned the burner off on the stove and stood watching Will’s movements now, apparently as transfixed with the sight as Will himself. 

Will finished slicing the first beet, the latter half done much more precisely than the former, before he answered. “I’m sure you’ll be equal parts unsurprised and appalled to know that we mostly ate prepared meals at home.” A glance up at his friend proved him correct. Dr. Lecter’s head tilted fractionally to the side, his brows raised slightly, his lips marginally parted, still studying the motion of Will’s hands with the knife. “Where did you learn to cook?” Will asked, to give the man something to do besides stare. 

The question seemed to break Hannibal’s concentration on Will’s work, because he turned back to the stove. “I began cooking as a student. The meals at my boarding school in Paris were well enough, but I longed for a taste of home.” 

Will caught the look—a quick thing, there and gone in the next moment—that passed over Hannibal’s face as soon as the words left his mouth. _He regrets his phrasing. _

“A taste of a familiar cuisine,” he said.

_A correction, not an expansion. _What about ‘a taste of home’ had been so dissatisfactory? 

The knife came down again and barely skimmed the skin of Will’s glove-clad knuckle. Will hissed and dropped the knife. He stripped his glove off and brought his hand up for inspection, the discarded plastic falling to the counter below. His first cursory look revealed that he hadn’t cut himself deeply enough to draw blood, thankfully, but Hannibal tsked behind him and pulled Will’s hand from where he clutched it to his chest. 

He bent over Will’s fingers, peering at his knuckles, checking the damage with an earnestness that made Will’s face flame with embarrassment. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Lost my grip for a second there, is all.”

“A minor injury,” Hannibal agreed, still examining the digit that despite the loss of a layer of skin looked perfectly undamaged, hands gripping Will’s to keep in place. So different from Eldon’s sparse, reluctant touches, when he’d treated Will’s blisters after his first escape. “Perhaps we should defer conversation until the meal is done?” The oven dinged then, and he moved away again to turn the rack of lamb over inside.

“It’s fine,” Will said. It wasn’t the talking that got him. “I haven’t cut myself in the kitchen in years.”

“Performance anxiety, then?” Hannibal asked, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

Will frowned, resuming his work with the beets. When his prep work concluded, Hannibal thanked him for his help and then asked if he wouldn’t mind setting the table. As Will picked up the tray loaded with napkins and utensils and a variety of glasses, he caught a peek of Hannibal out of the corner of his eye. 

Inspecting his work.

He held his laughter in until the kitchen door stood firmly closed behind him.

Halfway through their dinner, Hannibal returned to the topic of the evening once more. “If one were to, as you say, cobble together a family,” he said dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, “how would one approach the task of selecting its members?”

Hannibal would know that the only logical answer was ‘it depends’. “You want to know how _I_ would do it,” Will inferred. The deferential tip downward of Hannibal’s chin confirmed this. Will set down his fork and knife and leaned back in his chair. “I’d look for the ones that have nowhere else to belong but with me.” 

Hannibal appeared thoughtful.

“I go with my gut,” he added, unable to resist. “But I always check for a microchip, in case they got out by accident.”

“Your dogs.” The words came out slowly, slightly affronted. “You were speaking of your dogs.”

“I’ve never cobbled together any other kind of family, Hannibal,” Will said. 

The affront melted from Dr. Lecter’s face, and a pleased smile took its place. “Of course,” he said, and tucked back into his meal, the smile still lingering about his lips.

By the time Will woke up on Friday morning, it had long passed his usual hour for getting out of bed. His Thursday nights were getting later and later, tipping over into the wee hours of the morning for the first time last night, and as a result his Fridays were getting off to an increasingly later start. After dinner, drinks by the fire, a midnight dessert and a strong cup of coffee—black, complex, and smooth, and honestly the best he’d had in probably ever—Will made the long trek home and passed out immediately upon lying on his bed. 

Now he opened his eyes to the whining of his dogs and the realization that he’d forgotten to set an alarm. He’d felt so clear-headed the night before, so present. Now, though, he took care of the mutts in a haze, unable to focus, muzzy and fatigued, hopped in and out of the shower in ten minutes even, and shot off a text message to Matthew to warn him that he’d be late to brunch. 

He needn’t have bothered.

As he passed Tyson’s Corner, after the 267 merged with I-66 East, his car skimmed over some road-side debris left behind by the construction crews who were perennially patching up the metro area highways, and with a bang as loud as a gun-shot, his front passenger wheel popped a flat.

Will slammed his hand against the edge of the steering wheel, a curse on his lips. He turned on his hazard lights and pulled over onto the shoulder. Last night’s snow accumulation on the pavement crunched under his boots as he walked around the car to assess the damage. 

“No patching that,” he sighed, taking in the long, jagged tear in the tread. Never mind the actual puncture; the metal had dragged over the rubber, probably catching onto the hole, and ripped its way through it for the short stretch he’d had to drive before pulling off the road. 

He could pull out the janky spare tire under the floor of his trunk, but no way could he drive the rest of the way into Arlington on that thing. It would take him to the closest auto shop, and then it would go right back into the trunk where it belonged.

Frustration warred with relief. He hadn’t wanted to go to brunch with Matthew, after all; he had only agreed to it to appease the man. Matthew had really thrown his weight around the last time. It didn’t sit well. 

After another kick at his wheel, he hopped into the backseat of his car, pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and pulled up Matthew’s contact information. 

_Text or call?_

The debate lasted only a moment. Easier to explain things over the phone. Matthew picked up after the first ring. 

“Will,” he greeted, “I was just about to head out.”

“Oh, good. I need a raincheck,” he said, making sure that his voice captured all the frustration at the minor accident, and none of the relief of its consequences. “Popped a flat on the highway. Won’t make it.”

Matthew sat silent for a beat. _Debating whether or not to believe me_. “You need me to pick you up? I’m good with cars. Handy. I can jack it for you.”

The pun was entirely expected, but so sophomoric that Will still laughed aloud. “Thanks,” he said, “but I can do it myself. Send me your work schedule and I’ll look at my availability for next week when I get home, shoot you a text. That work?”

“Sure.” Surprisingly, Matthew didn’t sound disappointed at the late cancellation of their plans. Maybe Will’s promise to make himself available again in the near future had cushioned the blow. 

Will grumbled a goodbye and disconnected the call. He looked down at his phone in his hands, briefly, and debated. _It’s cold._ He thought of his poor fingers, turning blue out there as he replaced the tire on his own. Or he could call for a tow. He hadn’t opted for the roadside assistance option with his car insurance, and he couldn’t stomach the uncovered expense now. So he got out of the car, pulled his toolbox and jack and the mini spare from his trunk, and set about replacing the tire himself.

The cold slowed him down and made his usually dexterous fingers clumsy. As his grip slipped on the lug wrench, he thought of Hannibal’s sure grip on the sharp knife, his clean, precise cuts. _Transferring his skills in surgery into the culinary arts._ Damned if he could find a way to repurpose his empathy—at least, in a way that he enjoyed—the way Dr. Lecter had turned his sure hand to cooking.

But Dr. Lecter seemed so much more purposeful in the way he lived his life, whereas Will floated through his existence like a bubble on the water. Hannibal could handle a child in his life. He would organize child care while he worked, have a structured bath and bedtime routine, raise a genius and a prodigy. But not a loving child; not a warm one. Will, on the other hand, if he were ever lucky enough to have a child, would fail them in every respect except that one.

And not because he would _do _anything to make it so. How could they help but be loving, if they inherited his _special gifts_?

_Really, though_, he chastised himself, at last tugging the damaged wheel free, _who would want to have a child with _me_. _Hannibal may yet find the right partner out there to create a family with, but Will felt increasingly certain that no such paragon existed out there for him. “And what’s more,” he grumbled, breath condensing on his skin and freezing over just as quickly, “why would I want to doom some poor innocent to have _Will Graham_ for a father?”

The words stung more when spoken aloud.

He finished his task frowning—whether in concentration or because of the sudden downturn of his mood, who could say?—before sliding back into his car. While his hands warmed up in front of the heater vents, he looked on his GPS for a repair shop off the next highway exit. He filled the hour and a half it took for them to get around to replacing his tire with internet browsing for a piano tuner. 

He still hadn’t found one with better rates or better reviews than Tobias Budge by the time they handed him back his keys. It seemed more and more likely that Budge had offered him a discount rate, owing to the interest he had in Will’s questionable celebrity. But Will didn’t need to rush to commit himself. Much as he wanted to get the work done, tuning the piano wasn’t an immediate priority. 

Figuring out what to do with Matthew Brown, however…

That was a problem that would take much longer to solve than the drive back home. 

-+-

Hannibal looked down at the crime scene photographs in his hands. Beside him, Alana leaned forward, pressing into his arm as she peered down at them. They had gone over these photographs countless times in the last week, because unlike the Gideon or Wells cases, this one seemed to move at a snail’s pace. 

Two crime scenes in two states. Four victims at the first crime scene, five at the next. At both, all the victims were found seated around the dinner table. Mother, Father, and their children. _But not all of their children_. Each family had a middle son, reported missing months and months prior.

The shots had originated from one shooter, standing in place, executing each victim at the scene while the others made no move to flee. And yet the shooter at the first scene had not been responsible for the second; ballistics analysis revealed a significant difference in the weapon’s height when fired, from one spree kill to the other. 

Despite the difference, both were far lower than the average at which a typical shooter might hold a gun.

No typical shooters here, but children. 

Two crimes perpetrated by children. 

The conclusion seemed obvious. The runaway boys had returned home to execute their families. The first had been missing for greater than a year; the second, a little over four months. Over the week that the FBI had been airing the boys’ photographs on the news, they’d received only one tip, and it had proved unproductive. 

Mr. Price and Mr. Zeller were calling them _the lost boys._

Hannibal found he didn’t mind the moniker terribly. Freddie Lounds would have found a far more sensational and degrading name. 

“I just keep looking at them,” Alana said, transfixed by a perspective photograph taken from the shooter’s point of view of the victims around the table. “What would bring these boys to kill even their siblings?”

They appeared to come from happy homes. No evidence of abuse between parents or toward the children could be found when the bodies were examined and the neighbors interviewed. 

Of course she could not fathom it, the violence that a child could be capable of. She came from a stable family, a secure childhood. Hannibal, however, knew from frightening experience how violence and the impulse to do violence could come to the heart of a child. If, like these boys, he had managed to access a weapon, something that would help him overcome the differences in size and strength that kept him harmless, all those years ago…

Well.

“A case of middle child syndrome, taken to its logical extreme?” he mused aloud, knowing that the idea would incense her. 

“Not unless there was some underlying—” she started, clearly affronted, but her energy fizzled out midway. She took a step back and reached for her purse. “I’m going home,” she sighed. “Staring isn’t helping me think.”

He nodded, still fixated on the image in his hands. It had an almost renaissance-like quality, with a gothic flair, perhaps. The happy family, surrounding a devil’s feast of rotted foods, spoiling fruits. 

“Hannibal?” 

So she expected that he would retire as well? “I’d like to look through these more carefully,” he murmured, but set the photograph down on the table. “Allow me to walk you to your car.”

Her appreciative smile no longer had the hopeful tilt that it had at one time. She recognized the courtesy as merely a courtesy. Their casual talk through the hallways at Quantico remained light and impersonal, though their farewell did not lack its usual warmth. 

Upon his return to the consultant’s office, Hannibal stowed all the photographs except the one that had so occupied his attention prior to Alana’s departure. This one he slipped into his briefcase before putting his coat on and heading down to the lab for a final check-in.

Miss Katz, leaning over her work-table when he entered the lab, had her laptop in front of her, eyes riveted on the screen. She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps. “Good timing. Come look at this, Doctor, and tell me what you think.” 

He rounded the table to see her screen. 

“One of the neighbors across the way has one of those Ring security systems, you know. We’ve finally been granted access to their footage.”

“I was under the impression those types of systems are motion-activated within a rather short distance.”

“Turns out, they have a bird nesting right by where they have the camera put up. The little guy’s constantly triggering it, but they can’t get permission to get the nest down until it’s empty. It’s only a partial view, but take a look and tell me what you think.”

She hit play. 

Hannibal recognized the victim’s house immediately, on the upper left corner of the screen. She had not exaggerated: less than half of the façade and only the very edge of the driveway were visible. The street sat silent and still, unmoving, for the first several seconds. 

From the right, a nondescript grey minivan rolled down the street, already slowing to a stop. Neither the angle nor the resolution of the image was conducive to reading the plate, even when it pulled into the driveway of the victim’s house and faced the camera head on. 

The camera jostled, then.

“The bird,” Beverly said. “Here, look.”

The passenger side doors, still only barely visible on the screen, opened. Three boys came out, rounded the minivan and headed toward the front door of the house, out of view of the camera. The moment they disappeared, Beverly paused the video. 

“What do you think?” she asked.

He took a moment to formulate his thoughts. “_Three_ boys,” he said, “and a mysterious driver.”

_‘If one were to, as you say, cobble together a family, how would one approach the task of selecting its members?’ _

He had asked the question as a generality, wanting to know what Will thought the masses might do, generally; he wanted to know what Will would do, personally. Hannibal had his own ideas, of course, though they would be irrelevant for a while yet. 

Now the question had more immediate relevance. Beverly still watched him, seeing he had more to say, waiting for him to continue. “It’s equally likely, I suppose, that the driver is another boy like them,” his lip curled to show what he thought of this theory, “older, with his license now. The template that the others follow.”

“But you’re thinking something different. An adult,” she surmised. “A pied piper.”

“A mother,” Hannibal corrected, thinking of the family portrait he had tucked into his briefcase. _The mothers shot last_. “A woman that could give these boys what their own families did not.”

Beverly nodded along. “Validation. Attention. Middle children want attention.” 

“Are you a middle child, Miss Katz?” Hannibal asked, turning the entirety of his focus onto her. 

“Worse. I’m the oldest of four.”

“You certainly seem to have the run of things here in the lab,” he commented, and this brought out a pleased laugh from his companion. “Shall I speak to Jack, update him on this discussion?”

“It’s alright,” she said, shooing him away. “I’ll be here for a while yet. Gonna try to get an ID on the third kid. I’ll go up and catch Jack when I’ve got something either way.”

“Thank you.” He picked up his briefcase again and headed for the door. 

_How would a mother go about selecting her children? _The bonds between members of a chosen family would need to be tested before they could truly call themselves a family. Before their bond became something tried, immutable. ‘Prove your love for me and this family,’ this woman would say, ‘by destroying the one you left behind.’

His thoughts returned to Will Graham. He need not resort to something so dramatic, for him. 

“Sorry I’m a little late,” Will said, dusting the snow off his cap as he stepped into Hannibal’s foyer. He didn’t flinch when Hannibal’s hands smoothed over his shoulders from behind to grip the lapels of his jacket. 

A firmer touch than Hannibal usually allowed himself; he felt the dip of Will’s clavicles through the thick material. But Will didn’t seem to notice, as he went right on talking. 

“The roads are a nightmare. We haven’t had winter weather like this in years, it feels like.”

“Thank you for coming all this way, despite the roads,” Hannibal murmured, hanging the coat up, along with hat, scarf, and gloves. 

“Well, you said you needed help. The case?” 

“Unfortunately, yes.” As usual, Will waited for Hannibal to lead the way into the house, to determine where they would pass their time. Hannibal felt the presence of Will’s body close behind him as he led the way to the sitting room, though Will separated himself once through the door to warm himself by the fire. Hannibal admired the way Will’s cheeks were still pink from the cold, the way that the curl over his forehead remained charmingly in place, though the rest of his hair had been flattened somewhat by his hat. 

Hannibal reached for his briefcase where it sat next to the coffee table and withdrew the photograph from within. He placed it on the middle of the table, knowing that Will would get to it when he felt ready. 

“You gonna brief me on it?”

“I could,” Hannibal said, “but where would be the fun in that?”

A charming, challenging smile from his guest. “You can’t turn it off at all, can you?” he asked. “Your curiosity. Wanting to figure out the way my brain works.”

Hannibal didn’t bother denying this, merely inclining his head forward in answer. 

Will shook his head, but his smile remained amused as he reached down for the image. He removed his glasses and tucked them into his shirt-front pocket; a new habit, or one that he had only let Hannibal see as of recently. 

He brought the photograph over to the seat he had claimed as his own and settled down to study it. For a few minutes, the only movements he made were the rise and fall of his chest, and the slow movement of his eyes as he studied the image in all of its parts. 

Hannibal occupied himself at the sideboard, perusing the many bottles within before settling on a Japanese whiskey—Hakushu 18, and quite fine if reports were to be believed—that a former patient had given him a little over a year before. He poured them each a glass, neat, and set Will’s down beside him on the table before taking his station in the opposite chair.

“The kids they’ve been looking for on the news,” were the words with which Will broke the silence. “They’re your suspects?”

All this, from a perspective shot framed at the shooter’s height, showing his victims at the table. _Truly remarkable._ “Just so.”

Will frowned now, fiercely. “They’re—what? Nine and twelve?” He made eye-contact briefly with Hannibal, and he must have seen the humor there. They both knew that he remembered with perfect clarity what the news had broadcast about the boys. “This is why you were asking about making a family.”

“I do not claim your levels of prescience,” Hannibal teased. “That was merely the case of a hypothetical that turned out to be rather to the point.” Will grunted, but waited for more information. “Middle children—runaways—all missing from home for varying lengths of time.”

“All,” Will piped up. “There’s another boy?” 

_Perceptive as always_. “Yes. A neighbor’s security camera picked up footage of three boys coming out of a minivan not long prior to the shooting. The driver remained out of frame.”

“The driver is the glue,” Will decided. “What’s keeping them together.” His lips twisted to the side, his gaze slid over to the fire, and his thumb began tapping at the arm-rest of his chair. Deep in thought. “A mother figure, I’m guessing.”

“Why not a father?” Never mind that he had come to the same conclusion.

Will licked his lips. “Would it feel like a family to them, without a mother?” he asked. His eyes swivelled up to Hannibal’s, daring him to ask the question that had summoned itself to the tip of his tongue. 

_You did not know your mother, Will. Did it not feel like a family to you without her?_

And, more secretly, _would it not feel like a family to you without a mother for your child?_

“They came from families with mothers,” Will went on, thumb tapping again. “They would look for that warmth, that unconditional acceptance. But that’s not what they got.” He looked down at the photograph again. “They got this rite of initiation instead.”

“A mother, collecting stray young boys, creating her own family,” Hannibal mused. “And then destroying the old families to solidify the bonds of the new one.”

“There’s a third boy, you said,” Will said. “Means, unless you’ve missed something, they’ve got another stop to make.” This would be the general _you_, Hannibal decided, and not an accusation toward him directly. “Find the boy, you’ve found their next target.”

Hannibal hummed. “Miss Katz is attempting to identify him.”

“Cross reference with missing child databases…” Will went on, in a world of his own. He seemed to process Hannibal’s interjection at last, though, head snapping up. “You’ve covered that angle then. You wanted insight into the mother?”

“If you can manage any.”

Will leaned back in his seat, the photo dropping into his lap. He frowned again, the way he did when deep in thought. After a moment he sighed and tipped his head back against the top of the chair. 

Hannibal didn’t mind the opportunity to observe his _friend_. His own initial impressions in response to the question of the mother were simple: A woman, betrayed by the idea of family before, who had chosen to create her own. One who fostered codependency, loyalty, by asking her charges to sever all ties in such a way that they might never turn back. 

“She rejects blood ties,” Will said at length. “A chosen family is better.” He fell silent again, lashes fluttering over his cheeks. “Something she’s internalized completely. Learned at a young age. Maybe she was a runaway herself. Just following the template that she’d been taught, now she’s decided to have children.”

“Unmarried, then,” Hannibal surmised. 

“Mm,” Will replied. “Unorthodox method of adoption.” He paused. “What happens to the children that fail the test?” he asked. “Any similar murder cases that didn’t fit the pattern?” Another beat, and then, with a wry grin, “Outside of Gideon’s.” 

Hannibal chuckled. He too had noted the parallel, the family slain around the dinner table, though it seemed inappropriate to comment on it to his coworkers at the time. As to the actual question, he thought back. “I recall one such case, though the particulars escape me.” Not a memory he bothered to catalogue, given its apparent irrelevance to the case. 

“Well, working backwards won’t stop the next one,” Will grumbled, discarding that line of thinking. “The third kid is where the answer is.”

The sound of the fire crackling in the hearth filled the silence that descended over the next few minutes. 

“You’ve been thinking of family,” Will started, his speech hesitant, uncertain. 

“I have,” Hannibal replied.

“Your sibling...” Will’s eyes raised and stared at Hannibal’s face. 

Not an entirely unexpected inquiry. He knew Will would ask, eventually. Will would have caught on to that detail—of course he would. Sadness welled up within Hannibal’s chest. The bitter regrets, the pain. 

Will sought his vulnerability. As a friend, he would give it to him, though he had not spoken of her in years. 

“Her name was Mischa,” he said, blinking away a tear. “I was seven years old when she was born. In a way, I felt myself a parent to her.”

“How old was she, when…?” His eyes too had taken on a sheen of moisture. What a lovely thing, his face in suffering. More beautiful, to know that the suffering wasn’t his own, but Hannibal’s, reflected from within him. 

“Six.” He closed his eyes. _Enough_. He couldn’t discuss this anymore. “She is on my mind more often, recently. The case has its associations, of course, but I also recall the happiness she brought me, and find myself longing to recapture the beauty of that connection.”

“Connection,” Will sighed. 

“The word seems to bring you discomfort,” Hannibal noted, pleased to change the subject. 

“Mm.” Will’s jaw tensed; he took a sip of his whiskey. “Word’s become too heavily associated with Eldon,” he murmured, tentative. 

“Is it his view of connection, or he himself that makes the association unpleasant?” Would he receive an answer or another quick deflection. 

“You already know the answer to that, Doctor Lecter.” 

Hannibal recalled the wistfulness in Will’s voice when he spoke of Eldon Stammets’ awful cooking. “His definition, then,” he said, and Will’s silence served as confirmation enough. “How does he view connection?” he mused, taking care not to make it sound like a direct question. “I’ve wondered if he connects them to one another in planting them, or if he connects them to himself, through the consumption of his crop.”

Voice faraway, the words spilled from Will’s lips. “When mankind is dead and buried, whatever follows behind us and consumes the fruits of our flesh will carry forward with it a piece of our souls.” 

A quote from the letter that Stammets had sent Will. The one that Freddie Lounds had published.

“In reality, though, the answer is both. The mycelium reach for one another, connect to one another. Whether or not he is involved in that connection, he has provided those connections to the bodies in those graves.” Will had taken on the clinical detachment of a lecturer, rather than the usual highly intimate tones of voice that he used when delving into the mind of another. “Eating the mushrooms doesn’t accomplish that kind of—of _true_ connection. He admires the way the fungus can manage something that human minds can’t.”

“Yours can,” Hannibal countered.

“Not—not _physically._”

“But in effect,” Hannibal decided, excitement rushing through him again, pieces coming together in the pretty puzzle of Eldon Stammets and Will Graham. “It’s not a coincidence that he chose you to break his pattern with, is it?”

Will’s body had grown steadily more rigid, his posture more upright, as Hannibal spoke. Now he stared outright, face perfectly blank, jaw clamped shut. 

“How did he know?” Hannibal asked. 

“He filled my prescriptions a few times.”

_Not an answer at all_. He couldn’t resist. “Is he the type to understand the behavior of others so well?” 

Will chuckled, knowing he had been caught out, that Hannibal did not believe his little excuse. He shook his head, relaxed into his seat. His scent, which had grown more intense with his increasing perspiration, evened out a little. A cue that this topic of conversation too had run its course for the evening. He had taken his lumps—now he would strike back. “_Your_ definition of connection I find vastly more interesting.”

“Oh?” Hannibal knew to expect a barb, but he wondered what form it would take. A delicious sense of anticipation warmed his chest. 

“You seem to avoid intimacy with others almost entirely. This foray into friendship is a new venture for you, isn’t it?”

“Do I appear so inexperienced?” Hannibal laughed, delighted.

“Oh, yes,” Will replied, a little smirk on his lips. He had taken on that loose, unencumbered manner of speaking that he displayed the once when he said, ‘I’ll have to watch what I say to you,’ and had first shown Hannibal the possibilities behind the soft, traumatized exterior. “Vulnerability is an ill-fitting suit for you, Doctor.”

“Then I am in good company,” Hannibal replied, returning that smile, not at all offended. Neither of them were in the habit of making themselves vulnerable with others. Where Hannibal elected to maintain a highly social persona with limited depth, Will resorted to isolation to compensate for his natural tendency to involve himself too much in the feelings of others.

“In some ways we are very alike,” Will agreed.

Hannibal hesitated for a moment before speaking, but curiosity for Will’s reaction, as usual, won out. “Alana Bloom says she is unable to wrap her mind around a friendship between us.”

“Wonders what we could possibly have in common.” He sounded a little bitter, but he glanced up at Hannibal with amusement shining in his eyes. “What we could possibly have to talk about?”

“How you could tolerate my inquisitiveness,” Hannibal added.

“How you could tolerate my lack of social graces.”

They laughed. “Perhaps we do make something of an odd couple,” Hannibal said, still chuckling.

“From the outside looking in, maybe.” A minute of pleasant silence. “Imagine either of us with a child,” his voice still carried humor, as he turned his gaze back to the fire. “What a disaster that would be.”

“I’m not so certain,” Hannibal said. He leaned his head back, utterly relaxed. “We were forming deeper connections together rather admirably, not a moment ago.”

“Fumbling through friendship and raising a child are two completely different things.”

“Of course,” Hannibal agreed. “But I believe we could manage perfectly well, if a child were to fall in our laps.” 

Will laughed. “If either of us _were _to end up with a child,” he said, “having a friend to rely on would certainly come in handy.”

“The proverbial village.” 

“Yeah.” Will’s eyes flitted closed. “You’re really thinking about it, huh?”

“I’m sure it will pass.” Hannibal drank in the angle of Will’s jaw for a moment before adding, more thoughtful, “This case, and the memories of Mischa that it evokes…” his eyes roamed down the column of Will’s throat, observing unobserved. “When they are behind me, the idea will not seem so urgent.”

“Not so urgent, but still present?"

"Mm," Hannibal agreed.

"When the time comes, which route will you take? Homegrown, or will you take things into your own hands? Hand-selected?”

“The way this mother has?” Hannibal asked, and received only a snort in response. “At the moment, the latter seems to suit me better,” he said in answer, “though that does not preclude the possibility of the former.”

Will cocked a brow. “Doctor Lecter in love,” he mused, teasing. 

Hannibal had been referring to surrogacy, but he did not bother to correct this assumption.

“What I wouldn’t give to see that.”

“Oh,” Hannibal said, airily. “Someday, I’m quite certain you will. And,” now he raised his eyes to Will’s, indulged in the moment of direct eye-contact, “when that happens, I’ll be certain to come around and collect.”

Will turned his face back toward the fire, laughing easily. He resumed his lax posture from before, breathing deep, relaxed. 

He had come in quite a hurry. ‘_You said you needed help_.’ And yet the subject of their business had completed rapidly, and still he made no move to go. 

With a sense of satisfaction, Hannibal stood from his chair, and already knowing what to expect for an answer, asked, “Will you stay for dinner?”

“You’d think of sending me home in this weather without feeding me first?” Will returned, the lines around his mouth in relief with his smile. “And you call yourself a friend.”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, team. So “a week or two” turned into more than a month. My house has been a disaster (plumbing explosions, leaking roof needing immediate replacement after some bad storms… lots of things), and I am only now getting to feel more like a human again. If things are a bit rocky for the next few updates, that’s why. Also, my beta reader (metricmadscience, angel amongst angels) is going to be a bit busier in June, so we’ll see how we finagle updates. I’m trying to get back into the swing of things, back to regular updates.  
Thanks to those of you who took a moment to cheer me on, and send me supportive and encouraging messages. You have no idea how much I appreciated it!  
This chapter was a thoughtful little lull in the action, but fear not friends! Real soon, things are gonna happen so much.


	18. Poisoned Wells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: coercive, incestuous phrasing, easily skipped, at end of the third paragraph. References to abuse. 
> 
> Approximately a 32-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Eighteen

Poisoned Wells.

-+-

Margot Verger carried herself with dignity. Her expression maintained an aloof, untouchable air, her voice came out level and unaffected. A woman who had learned to hide herself in order to survive. In some ways, she opened herself up to him much more readily than some clients he had worked with for years. “I’m here because I tried to have my brother killed,” she said, unabashed, eyes boring holes into him, looking for some kind of reaction. 

But, interactions with Will Graham excluded, Hannibal had long mastered the art of concealing his opinions. His face remained perfectly still, showing none of his simmering delight at this bold confession. 

“You mentioned as much on the phone,” he said. Her brother’s message, that vulgar thing, also made reference to it. _‘Doctor Lecter,’ _the voice drawled, its peculiar cadence tripping the ear, _‘the thing_ _about my sister is that she has these _ideas_. I keep __telling_ _her she’d_ _be_ _better off if she stopped thinking, but in her case the stick works better than the carrot. Maybe this idea of hers, see__ing you, could be the exception. You offer her the stick, and she can take my carrot. Logistics, better worked out in conversation.’ _

“The reason that you made an exception for me,” she replied, a little archness in her manner. 

“Yes,” he answered. The reason he’d made the exception, but not the one she thought Hannibal enjoyed a hobby of cultivating in others their darkest urges. For clients with this potential, he sought their acceptance of and eventual acquiescence to those desires. That they might live their fullest lives by knowing themselves first and becoming the most authentic expression of themselves second. 

He had taken part in some staggering transformations over the years.

Margot Verger had already done a lot of this introspective work. She knew what she wanted and accepted her desire. In small ways, she appeared to be attempting to take those final steps, but had yet to realize the most important truth: if she believed that Mason Verger deserved to die—and by all accounts, he did—then _she _must be the one to make it so. 

“I’m surprised you pushed my appointment back so far, after that disclosure.” She raised an eyebrow, prompting him to explain. 

“As you know, I consult for the FBI on occasion. They requested my assistance on an urgent matter, with quite the unfortunate timing. I do apologize for the delay.”

The eyebrow dropped, though she continued to stare. A satisfactory explanation, then.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked. In a neat cast, and properly positioned in a custom-made and high-quality sling, it lay partially obscured by the artfully draped front of her jacket. 

Miss Verger turned away from him toward the window. From the waiting room, the muffled sound of one of her bodyguards coughing. The manicured fingers of her free hand reached for the sheers, pulling them aside to peek out onto the street. “I fell.” 

So obvious a lie could not be worth pointing out. 

She ambled over to the empty chair across from Hannibal, but instead of sitting, circled around behind it, hand settled on top. “The cast will come off soon. Happened a while ago.” 

“Mason was careful not to damage your arm this time, then,” he said, staring at the bruises that peeked over the edge of the collar of her shirt. 

“He can be thoughtful, in his own way.” Her lips curved upward in the semblance of a smile, but her eyes remained dead, unmoved.

“You are not at fault for what happened to you.”

“I’m the one who attacked _him_, Doctor,” she reminded him. 

Hannibal considered this, allowing a silence to fall between them. She had not attacked him, not in the literal sense. She hired someone to do it for her. “Does he resent you?” he asked. “Has your relationship changed?”

“No.” She sighed. “He’s excited to see what I’ll try the next time, of course, but for now… He thinks I’ve calmed down.”

“Have you?”

“Oh,” she said, her face still placid, and her eyes burning with fire-bright hatred, “I’m calm.”

Margot Verger seemed poised and intelligent. A quick mind, and a manipulative nature. A woman with her guard perpetually up. Perhaps he ought to change the subject. Allow her to acclimate to the temperature of these murky waters, before he set her to boil. 

“Have you anywhere to go, where you can feel safe?”

Some of the tension in her shoulders, there since before she first stepped into the room, released. His choice paid off. “I’m not allowed to leave,” she said. “I would lose everything. None of the family fortune would come to me, even if he were to die. Everything I have depends on his goodwill.”

_Then desperation must have led her to this attempt on Mason Verger’s life_, Hannibal decided, but kept this thought to himself. He said instead, “Something he does not appear to possess.”

Amusement, _actual amusement_, moved her lips for the first time that day, then faded just as quickly. “I don’t get an allowance,” she added. “The family covers all my expenses. I’m not allowed to work.” Her voice lost the level, even tone: frustration crept in around the edges.

Hannibal’s mind flitted back to the Lost Boys, and the contrasts between their case and Miss Verger’s. Where an outside force—the mysterious mother—compelled the children to kill their families, _this_ little family constantly sought to destroy itself from the inside. The boys came from comparatively happy homes, and yet were so easily led astray. 

By contrast, Mason Verger, from his brief voicemail and from this discussion, behaved like a well-fed house cat batting around a dormouse: intending to injure for its own amusement, uncaring if it killed its prey, and likely unsure what to do with it once it finally died. And Margot, despite the terrorization she endured at her brother’s hands, despite wanting him dead, could not bring herself to leave the fold. What poisoned well were they raised to drink from? 

“Tell me about your parents,” Hannibal prompted her. 

One of her eyebrows climbed up, then she turned her face to the window. “I rarely saw my father,” she said. “A daughter would never be worth his time. He took Mason around everywhere with him. A little mini-me, brought up to fill his shoes.”

“Are they much alike?” he asked.

“No.” She did not elaborate, nor did she go on to discuss her mother. 

“The fortune would bypass you,” he said, returning to the previous subject. “And go to whom?”

“Now, the Southern Baptist Church. Or to a male heir, if one were ever unlucky enough to be born.”

Quite a wide and multi-faceted loophole. One she might easily slip through, if the clause had indeed been worded in that way. But, perhaps due to years of contextualizing it in a certain light, she seemed blind to the possibilities. 

He would not enlighten her, not yet. It would be far more therapeutic for her to overcome her inhibitions sans the promise of a happy ending to ease her over that hurdle. If she could not make that choice without incentive, then he could hardly consider her ready to make the decision at all. 

_Only the first session_, he mused. _Plenty of time to get her there._

-+-

How odd to pull up on the street in front of Hannibal’s office. Yes, they met here when they discussed the Wells case, but that may as well be ages ago. He’d gotten so used to going for dinner at Hannibal’s house that the office seemed like a faraway world to him. 

In some ways, the distance and time allowed him to see it with fresh eyes. It had been a while since he turned a critical, analytical eye to the spaces that the doctor occupied, how he moved about them, how he conducted himself. Will’s focus had concentrated instead on the give and take between them, attempting to tease out the pieces of his friend’s past. For all that Hannibal harped on their growing friendship, he only recently began returning Will’s displays of vulnerability. Now that they had evened the playing field somewaht, Will could let his attention drift elsewhere. 

So he stood in front of the building, staring at its facade. In the winter, without the soft golds and oranges in the hedgerow that had brightened it when he came here to see Dr. Bloom, it looked comparatively stark, unwelcoming. And yet, the warm light glimmering from behind the curtains in the window seemed to draw him in. 

Might as well go up. 

As his feet stepped over the curb and onto the sidewalk, the door popped open. Will raised his head, expecting to see Dr. Lecter standing there as he usually did, a pleased little smile on his lips, his posture erect, his eyes glittering with humor. Instead, a young lady flanked by two men in black suits walked out, her thoughtful expression quickly replaced by curiosity when she looked at him. 

“Sorry,” he said, moving to clear the path onto the sidewalk from the stairs. She and her henchmen stepped down, still watching him. 

Tall, pretty. Elegant despite her injury. No—injuries, plural, with those strangulation bruises. Blue eyes, brown curls. A sweetly rounded face, but no sweetness in her expression. _She’s lost that a while ago_, he thought, recognizing the lines around her lips, worn in by years of frowning. 

“Do I know you?” she asked, and though she seemed interested, her voice had been trained to tones of forced apathy that she could not shed.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t,” he answered. He sniffled, shuffled his feet. _Unless you read TattleCrime_, he amended silently.

“Then do _you_ know _me_?” she insisted, confirming that she must.

Will hesitated for a split second. He could look. He already knew a lot about her, but he could try to _see, _and maybe that would tell him more. _No_, he decided. _Better not_. “Am I supposed to?” he asked, instead. His eyes moved up to the door, but it remained shut, the way she left it.

“You see Doctor Lecter,” she said, following his gaze.

It didn’t matter that for her, a stranger, it seemed a perfectly logical conclusion given the circumstances. It didn’t matter. And yet, he’d gotten a little tired of that assumption. “I don’t,” he corrected her. “I’m helping him with a project.”

“Contractor?” she asked, eyes flitting down toward his hands. 

He too looked down, rubbing his palm, with its previous unnoticed grease stain, on the side of his jeans. At that moment the door opened and Dr. Lecter stepped out into the cold. Relief washed over Will.

“And you’re usually so punctual to our appointments,” Hannibal said with a little welcoming smile.

Suspicion bloomed on the young woman’s face as she glanced between them. 

“Excuse me.” Will dodged around her and her entourage to go up the stairs. When he reached the top step and still hadn’t heard her heels clicking on the cement, he said, “Hey,” and bumped Hannibal’s shoulder with his own. The gesture must have appeared as awkward as it felt, because Dr. Lecter’s brows shot up, and his lips did a funny pinching thing, as though fighting back a laugh. “Sorry about that. Were you waiting?”

“Of course,” Hannibal teased lightly. “Please, come in.”

The sound of the door shutting behind him preceded that of her footsteps starting away. “A break in the case?” Will asked once they were in the office and settled down. He only realized, once seated, that he had forgotten his original intention of taking a closer look around, lost it in the flurry of little rituals that bookended their meetings.

Too late for that now.

“Of a sort,” Hannibal replied, a glass of white in each hand. He’d fiddled with his record player before serving their drinks, and Chopin played, gently filling the room. He passed Will his wine, then moved over to his own seat. “We have confirmed a crime scene that didn’t _quite_ fit the pattern as a part of it, after all.”

“Near by? Recent?”

“A few months ago, in Reston.” 

_Close to home, _Will mused. Very close; just over fifteen minutes away, in light traffic. They must be zig-zagging around, taking a nonlinear path to throw the dogs off the scent. A poor attempt. “What was off about it?”

Hannibal’s face took on an odd cast—a rigidity that belied his upset. “In addition to the family slain at the table, another body was found on the scene.” He swallowed. Will heard it, this far away, and his eyes followed the tension in the lines of Hannibal’s throat, visible just over his shirt collar. “A little boy, in the fireplace.” A pause. “Their middle son, missing for the greater part of a year.”

Will licked his lips. Sucked in a breath and counted to three before exhaling again.

“Also notable, there were two shots to the mother in this case,” Hannibal went on. “And the possibility of two shooters, given the difference in height from which the second bullet fired.”

“So,” Will started, dropping his gaze to his hands on his legs in an attempt to maintain objectivity; to avoid getting sucked into the whirlpool of emotions that surrounded his friend. It didn’t work; he closed his eyes and envisioned the scene. “This kid failed the test,” he murmured, picturing the first shot. The mother’s eyes, shining with forgiveness one moment, then obscured by blood the next. Panic and regret freezing him in place. _You have to finish it. You can’t have both. _And when he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ shoot again, a hand grabbing the gun from his little fingers. “Someone else needed to finish the job for him. And then—” 

Fire. 

Sweat popped up on Will’s brow, and he wiped it with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. 

“And then failure was met with punishment,” Hannibal finished for him, jaw tense, digits gripping tightly against his wine glass. 

Will took in these details and realized that the doctor had never shown this much of himself before. 

He’d thought, on their first meeting, that Dr. Lecter was not a man to fidget, but that hadn’t quite captured the scope of the observation. Dr. Lecter possessed a supreme economy of movement. He had very few discernable tells, and these he controlled so well, stamped out so quickly, that only a keen eye could catch them. 

Now, however, he did not seem to censor his physical reactions to the usual degree. He showed the tension in his jaw. The tightened grip of his fingers, the rigidity in the line of his spine. 

_In his own way, he’s __opening_ _up_. 

A warmth in Will’s chest helped to ease the chill that traveled down his spine at the horrible fate that befell this poor child.

“We know what awaits the third boy, then,” Will said, the words coming out just as tense as Dr. Lecter’s, “if we don’t stop them in time.”

A knock on the interior door. Both of their heads snapped up. 

Hannibal set down his glass and walked over. _Not walking_, Will corrected himself, _not quite_. But he couldn’t put his finger on it. _Something_ _in his gait, _Will thought, staring_. Something’s different._

Will didn’t need to see who waited beyond the door, once Hannibal opened it, to know whose arrival interrupted them. _That_ voice had imprinted itself deep into Will’s mind by now. 

“Doctor Lecter,” boomed Jack Crawford, from the other side. 

Already agitated, Will jumped to his feet. Hannibal stood aside, his jaw ticking once and so quickly that Will almost missed it. Jack walked into the room, coat on but hat in his hands, and a predatory light in his eyes when he spotted Will. 

“Will,” he said, smug. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Jack,” he greeted. “Been a while.” _But not long enough_. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I planned to wait outside, if you had a patient in here,” Jack said, turning to the doctor, and then right back to Will. “But then I recognized Will’s voice. Since you’re just having a _social _call, I figured you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal said, and Will knew that Jack would believe that Hannibal truly didn’t. _Will_, however, heard the change in his tone. Hannibal did not welcome this disruption, though he seemed resigned to it. “Please. Come in.”

A silence fell as Jack prowled around the room, his eyes coming back to Will every so often. 

Hannibal remained at his post by the door, watching Jack watch Will, not offering to take his coat. _Hm_. _Annoyed seems too light a word for this withdrawal of social niceties._

“I have an update for you,” Jack said, when he finally understood that Will had no plans to meet his eyes or to start a conversation. 

Will debated, for a moment, whether to make himself unobtrusive, _small_, to avoid Jack’s attention. But to stay in the same room as a discussion of the case would be _begging_ for Jack to rope him in on it. “I can go—” he started, ready to excuse himself.

“No need, no need,” Jack waved him off, still looking like the cat that got the cream. 

_Oh, God damn it._

“You already know all about it, don’t you, Will?” Jack said, confirming Will’s fears. “Why stand on ceremony?”

In his peripheral vision, Will saw Hannibal shoot a quick glance in his direction before he finally stepped deeper into the office and spoke. “We were nearing the end of our planned evening, as it is.” 

An out.

Will noted the pang of disappointment at cutting their night short, but he popped his lips open to accept the gift Hannibal had given him. 

Too slow. 

“Won’t take more than a minute, and Will’s not even done with his drink.” He gestured to the white Will had been nursing. “I’ll get down to it so you can get back to it,” Jack went on, railroading over any potential protests. “We’ve got a tentative ID on the third kid. Gas-station footage came in, gave us a clearer shot of his face. Cross-referenced with the missing child database, and—but timing on this is delicate, putting together a plan. We’ll run down to Fayetteville first thing in the morning, to catch things before they heat up.” 

“Excellent,” said Hannibal, sounding well-pleased for the first time since Jack’s arrival. “I would like to be present for the interview. I may not be able to make the drive down with you if I can’t reach all of my scheduled clients tonight, but I will meet you as soon as is feasible.” He took a step toward the door.

Jack smiled, disregarding the unspoken cue that he should start making his exit. He turned to Will instead. “Will you be joining us?” he asked.

The pleasure melted immediately from Hannibal’s expression. 

_And Jack, still so smug. _Will wanted to knock that smile right into his teeth. “I’m not working this case, Jack. Why would I be joining you?”

Jack moved his hat into one hand and tucked the other into his pocket. With an air of superiority, he called check-mate. “You were working it five minutes ago, Graham,” he said. 

“Jack,” Hannibal cut in, like a parent preparing to reprimand a misbehaving child, so patient that it screamed his impatience.

“We could use your insight,” Jack pressed, ignoring him. “These boys… these _children _could use your help.”

Will sucked in a breath and let it out slowly between his teeth. Any stronger a flow of air and he’d hiss. He wanted to turn Jack down. But that basic appeal to emotion—never mind how transparent and clumsily wielded—hit him where it hurt. He thought of Hannibal and his sister Mischa, his pain and his attachment, and knew that he couldn’t say no.

“Only because it’s _children_,” Will said, seeing from Jack’s expression that this capitulation meant Jack would forever search for a way to involve him on more of the edge cases. “I don’t think I’ll add anything of value at this point, though.” He gritted his teeth. “Or see why I have to go down there. I won’t be doing anything, anyway.”

If Jack’s head grew any larger, it would burst through the ceiling. He looked so damn _satisfied _with himself, as if he’d accomplished something more than showing up with particularly good timing. “I’ll expect you at—”

“If it’s alright with you,” Will cut him off to address Hannibal, “I’ll ride in with you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Perfectly alright. I’ll pick you up on my way.”

This seemed to take some of the wind out from Jack’s sails, but he recovered quickly enough. “Excellent.” He looked between them once, then back to Will’s wine on the table. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then.”

“Such a lengthy drive for so small an errand?” Hannibal asked as he herded Jack to the door. 

“Well, I’d hoped to share a glass with you myself,” Jack said, charmingly honest without angling for an invitation. 

And yet, Will caught himself frowning. His mouth tasted bitter with resentment at the idea that Hannibal and Jack might meet for drinks, had met for drinks before. 

“Another night, perhaps.”

The boiling in Will’s stomach immediately settled. He gnawed on the inside of his lip. _What was _that_ all about?_

“I’ll call ahead,” Jack said, casting a glance over his shoulder. “Just in case.”

They passed into the waiting room, leaving Will alone in the office. He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Jack exited into the night air not long after and crossed the street to where he’d parked his car. Not two spaces behind it, a familiar, worn out sedan.

_Matthew_. 

He gritted his teeth, working his jaw muscles as he turned from the sight of him. 

It surprised him, and again he reminded himself that it _shouldn’t—because he’s a ninja—_that when he stepped away from the glass, Hannibal stood perched beside him. He looked over Will’s shoulder, so close that Will almost bumped into him. So he peered back out into the dark and didn’t bother to fight the frown that came automatically when he saw Matthew’s car still parked there. 

Hannibal’s hand flitted across Will’s shoulder, squeezing once gently before releasing him. _That’s what I should have done, _Will thought, _when we were on the stairs. _But no, such a gesture lay beyond his capabilities. 

“You seem upset. Is everything alright?”

Will’s molars pressed so tightly together that he thought they might crack. “Everything’s fine,” he said, not bothering to make it convincing. Hannibal already knew. He glanced to his side, where Hannibal had leaned forward to take a peek through the glass, his chest nearly bumping the left half of Will’s back.

The doctor’s gaze remained out the window for a few breaths. With each inhale, the lapels of his jacket pushed the fabric of Will’s shirt closer to his skin, warmer than it had been moments before. But Hannibal must have seen nothing in the view of the street to interest him; he shifted out of the way, clearing a path for Will to make his escape. 

But he couldn’t.

Will sucked in a breath. His hand came up, as though to reach for the Doctor’s sleeve, but Hannibal stopped his progress before Will could do something stupid, like _grab him_. “Everything’s fine,” he reiterated, returning to his vigil over the sedan parked across the street. “But…”

Dr. Lecter stepped back into the space behind him, and the movement sent a tidal-wave of warmth over Will. His face heated, sweat gathered beneath his collar. 

“The car there,” Will said, for something to do. He didn’t point, arms rigid and still, in case Matthew sat in his car, watching them back. 

A long silence, and then a slow, measured inhalation behind him. Will shuddered. “Would that be your mysterious correspondent, then?”

“That… would be him.”

“Then the question is whether he is here for me, or for you.”

“I—” Will licked his lips, rubbed his sleeve against his face to mop up the rivulet of sweat that made its way down his temple. _His __timing_ _is too good,_ he thought. _He’s information-gathering, w__aiting_ _to see if I stay for a while or only an hour._ “I’m going to guess he’s here for me this time.” 

“Guess?” A puff of Hannibal’s breath hit the nape of Will’s neck. Will heard the smile in the following words. “Or know?”

He swallowed before answering. “Know.”

“Should I call the police?”

Will turned his head a little, only enough to catch the humor in the curve of his lips. With him standing this close, however, seeing him became too much. “No, no. He won’t do anything.” Not tonight, anyway. And not to Hannibal; Will would make sure of that.

“I trust your skills of observation and deduction, as well as your judgment. If you believe that I am not in danger, then I believe you.” 

Will released the curtain, letting it fall over the glass, and turned in place. Still too close, and feeling closer now that they faced one another, he stepped back toward the window. “Did you get a good look at the car?”

He cocked his head to the side. “I did.”

“I’ll talk to him. If you see it around after this, call the police.” 

“You plan to warn him off for me?” Hannibal asked. “And what about yourself?”

“That’s…” It grew increasingly more difficult to keep his eyes in the vicinity of Hannibal’s face; his gaze strayed downward from cheekbones to chin to the knot of his tie. “That’s a little more complicated,” Will sighed. “And a topic for another night, if you don’t mind.”

He may owe his friend an explanation, but not tonight. _Too much to tell_.

“I’m concerned for you, Will,” Hannibal said, and withdrew from his place trapping Will by the window. The air changed as he moved away, the void left behind him a cavernous thing. A yawning thing, with teeth. 

Will felt overcome by the desperate need to flee. 

He rushed to the coat rack, where impatient fingers pulled his jacket down from its hook. A now unfamiliar action; he never seemed to have to handle his jacket anymore, around Hannibal. 

“Going so soon?” Hannibal asked, following him. Not a moment’s hesitation as his dexterous hands freed the coat from Will’s unresisting grasp to open it up and help Will into it.

“You have calls to make,” Will said, submitting himself to these routine attentions without complaint. “And I should head home if we plan to leave early.”

“If you will wait a moment, I can send you off with your share of tonight’s dinner,” the doctor said, already on his way to the far door. 

Will didn’t have any desire to complain when Hannibal came back out again, two tupperware containers piled in one hand and an unbleached muslin grocery tote in the other. He felt for a moment like a child being sent off to school, or a husband to work, and accepted the proffered meal with amusement in his smile. “Thanks,” he said. “No way I’d cook this late at home.”

“I’m happy to provide.” Hannibal walked Will to the door. He issued a promise that he would text in the morning with a more precise timeline, and a caution to be ready for his arrival after seven.

Will stepped out into the cold, made for his car while peering out the corner of his eye the entire time. He started the engine and gave it a minute to warm up. Normally, he’d flip on the heater to help manage the biting cold, but tonight he didn’t need to bother. Not with the way his skin still prickled with warmth.

He pulled out into the street, and not a moment later, Matthew’s car pulled out behind him. Poor tailing technique. Relief immediately followed the validation for having been correct. 

He looked for Matthew’s sedan often in his mirrors on the drive, but lost sight of it for good before turning onto the highway. It seemed Matthew had other plans for the evening; he wouldn’t follow Will home tonight. And he wouldn’t bother Hannibal. 

Ever again, if Will could help it.

The chilly morning air shocked him into consciousness. All around him, the dogs milled about outside; only Winston sat on the porch beside him. In the pre-dawn light, everything looked shades of purple, edges fuzzy and undefined. He looked down, only coming all the way back into his body again when the sight of his feet—red bordering on blue—startled him out of his trance. 

He fumbled for a moment with the door knob, but the moment he got inside, the warmed air of his house burned like a furnace on his iced-over skin. His teeth only started chattering then, when the shocking heat of his house jolted his body into awareness of how cold he had become.

Sleepwalking, again.

How could he have let the dogs out without waking up? How long had they been outside? For his extremities to get this cold, he must have been out there for a while.

As soon as the sensation returned to his fingers, he would let the pack back in. They wouldn’t want to play too long in this winter weather.

Will tried, but he couldn’t remember anything of his dreams last night. Remembered falling asleep, though. With his belly full of the lion’s share of Dr. Lecter’s delicious leftovers, his throat and lips tingling from the nightcap he served himself on returning home, he climbed into bed and fell asleep immediately.

Awake now, he found himself exhausted to the bone. Amazing, how draining it was to sleepwalk, to nearly freeze to death outside in your underwear. How tiring to shiver and shake, unable to stop. But now, wrapped up in the throw blanket he kept on his couch, he slowly came back to life.

His fingers had not quite defrosted when he stood and went to the door, a sharp whistle already on his lips. The dogs came stampeding up to the porch, getting in line to come back inside. He cleaned them up as always, and then returned to the plush cushions of the sofa. A few of their warm bodies jumped up to tuck in beside him or drape over his lap.

Finger scratching behind Fonda’s ear, body surrounded by this miniature puppy pile and the warm blanket trapping the heat in around him, this may as well be heaven. Everything in the world, in _his_ world, felt right in this moment. 

But the peace and comfort didn’t last. He swiped at his sweating forehead, rubbed his fingers into his scalp, trying to fight off the pounding in his skull. He wanted to get up for an aspirin, but the mutts sprawled over him anchored him in place, and he didn’t want to disturb them. With a sigh, he released the tension in his neck and let his head loll back. 

“Matthew,” he murmured into the relative silence of the room. 

In retrospect, he could recall a sense of being followed, of trying to escape, that haunted his dream. The one that had stolen him from his bed and left him out in the cold. 

How funny that he should feel so much more unsafe now, in his own house, than he ever had while held at Eldon’s. 

Granted, at the time and for a while after the rescue, he had wondered how long he would have stayed safe there. But with the perspective that only distance could provide, he realized that he had nothing to fear in Eldon’s care. 

He knew that were he to look back on _this,_ years from now, even considering the little crush Matthew seemed to be nurturing, that the unease would remain. Matthew harbored the kind of affection that could turn very easily into resentment. Will had zero doubts that Matthew would be the type to nurture that resentment into a boiling hatred, and to see that hatred through to its logical end.

To make matters worse, Matthew had made his interest in and jealousy of Dr. Lecter perfectly clear. If Will didn’t play nice, Matthew may misdirect his anger toward Will and take it out on his friend. 

Seeing as Will harbored no intention of either he or the doctor dying at Matthew’s hands, this little puzzle needed an immediate solution. 

He turned it over and over in his mind, thinking of different angles by which he might approach it, how he could diffuse things without exciting the younger man’s killer instincts. 

_Matthew Brown has a crush on me,_ he repeated to himself, eyes drifting closed, _but that’s immaterial. What he wants from me is—_here, the voice of his thoughts turned into Matthew’s—_If we’re no longer solitary, well…_

“Hunting together,” he mused. _Matthew wants to hunt together_.

But more than that, he wanted to tug Will forward by the hand, and drag him into whatever chaos he created. So far, he had made no intimations of what kind of killer he was, what type of people populated his victim pool. This meant he probably operated on the down-low. 

_But he’s ready to shed that discretion,_ Will knew. Matthew moved with the pent-up energy of a panther in a cage. He had held himself back, all this time; when he finally came out of the shadows, he would do his best to leave a lasting impression on the minds of those who should fear him.

_How to convince Matthew to leave us alone_?

Possibly only three options: send him off to prison, find him another hawk to mate with, or put him down. 

Of all of those, only the first held any appeal. 

That would require decisive action. The way things stood, Matthew always had the power, dragging Will along. In Go terms, he had _sente_—the moves he made forced Will into the reactionary position, preventing him from changing the direction of the game, leaving him always following behind. 

He couldn’t win unless he redirected the flow. 

The angle of the sunlight streaming in through the windows changed; the hour grew later. Will pushed his dogs aside and got up off the couch. He walked to his fridge, peeked at the shelves, and saw the containers of Dr. Lecter’s food from the night before. It felt almost criminal to uncover the glass container and put it directly into the microwave, but what the doctor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He could have fit in a quick bite and then a shower before the clock reached a decent enough hour for Hannibal to text him with a proposed pickup time. Better to take care of all of that now. Lecter seemed like the type to text or call when he’d already driven halfway there.

But the call didn’t come as early as Will expected—the hour hand inched close to seven when the phone rang—though he did call from the road. 

Will took the time to move the leftovers from the doctor’s nice tupperware and into the cheap gladware he’d used in place of plates when he’d moved up from Louisiana. Once he had washed and dried the more elegant containers and tucked them back into the borrowed grocery tote, Will put his coat and shoes on. His puppies got the hugs and kisses they deserved, and showed him to the door with forgiveness in their eyes. 

He’d really made a habit of leaving the house an awful lot lately. He owed them a special treat, though the weather prohibited them from going too far for long. Something else to meditate over. 

Dr. Lecter arrived a scant minute or so later. After an appreciative murmur when Will returned his containers, and a suggestion that Will should try to get some sleep on the drive, they settled into the peaceful quiet that had become so familiar between them. Fayetteville being about a four-hour drive away, their projected arrival landed a little before noon.

But Hannibal had a way of gently easing the accelerator down toward the floor, and the Bentley ate the miles up under its wheels without the slightest hint of increased effort. _Different to how Eldon drove_, Will thought, remembering his strict adherence to speed limit signs, the older transmission’s protests with every change in gear.

The comfort and quiet of this drive lulled him back into an uncontested nap; his body grabbing on the chance to catch up on the sleep he’d missed this morning.

They took a break around ten o’clock at a rest-stop off the interstate. Will offered to buy coffee but Hannibal declined, having brought a thermos for each of them and a snack for the road, so Will bought two bottles of water while Hannibal fueled up. Once situated in the car, and after the doctor handed him his coffee, they were back on their way. 

Will cranked the seat-back down to an almost entirely horizontal position, expecting that he’d fall asleep immediately. Instead, he lay there, eyes on the snatches of sky past the bare trees that zoomed by the window. 

_‘I’d like to share a glass with you myself.’_

Even remembering those words in Jack’s smug voice upset him, made his skin go clammy and his vision waver. A month ago, he wouldn’t have given them a second thought.

“I’ve been thinking about the mother,” he said at length, when his eyelids refused to droop.

“I gather you have some insights to share,” Hannibal answered, eyes still on the road, tone interested but not invested. 

“Mm.” Will sighed, watched the doctors’ hand as it slid down the side of the steering wheel and into a more comfortable grip. His own hand, resting on the smooth, leather-upholstered armrest on the car door, lowered, stretching his arm out in mimicry of the motion. “Thinking about how she manipulates these boys into—to the point where they’d kill their families.”

“Creating codependency,” Hannibal murmured. 

_Fostering_ _friendship_, his mind supplied, out of nowhere. “Codependency,” Will agreed. “But it’s more than that. That’s the—they have to build up to that. She warps their perception of what is good and desirable, in the context of a familial relationship.”

“No suspicion for any antisocial behavioral markers reported for any of the boys,” Hannibal conceded. “By all accounts they appeared well-adjusted until they disappeared.”

“And they did disappear,” Will asked, “they weren’t taken?” He knew the answer, but he needed to hear the confirmation.

“Just so.” 

But to take up with a strange woman, just because they’d run away from home… Even if she appeared safe with the other boys around her, the thought process didn’t sit right. An idea blossomed in his mind, a bloom opening to bask in the sun. The longer he turned it over, the more certain he became. Hadn’t there been months between each disappearance? They may have decided to put the families down all at once, but the boys had been missing from home for close to a _year_.

All except the one they were chasing down today—Chris O’Halloran. 

_Four months_, he mused. _Four months to transform a mind_.

The words moved around his mouth; he tasted them on his tongue and knew they were correct. “She knew them before,” he said. “She’s selected them. Primed them over time. Poisoned the well.”

Dr. Lecter glanced over at him, a movement in Will’s peripheral vision—he didn’t catch the man’s expression. He didn’t need to, to know how the doctor would respond. 

“Insinuated herself into their lives,” he agreed. “Offered herself and her hand-selected family as the desired, natural alternative.”

“When they finally pull away from their families, she’s there with arms wide open.” Will’s eyelids flitted shut. “She’s built a house of cards. She _would_ need something to cement them to her, after that.”

“Distance,” Hannibal intoned, voice drifting over like a lullaby from the other side of the car. “And then the coerced elimination of their families.”

“She doesn’t want them to have anything in their lives that’s not her. Her, and the other boys,” Will added. “People bond over shared trauma.”

Dr. Lecter fell silent for a long moment, and Will could practically hear his thoughts turning over. A pleasant sound. “Engineered trauma can backfire,” he said, thoughtful, tentative, “if seen for what it is.”

“From love to resentment…?” Will murmured, the edges of consciousness already slipping away from him, now that this puzzle piece had fallen into place. 

“There is an argument to be made that the increased empathy, support and reliability necessitated by the codependency might ultimately benefit the children, middle children that they are.” 

“A moot point,” Will countered, lips barely parting as he spoke now. “_Ultimately, _coercion doesn’t make good glue.”

“No,” Hannibal mused. “It does not.”

“They don’t need violence…” the words drifted from Will’s lips as lightly as his breath, and he surrendered to sleep before he could speak the thought in its entirety.

He had the vague sensation of Hannibal saying something more—the rumble of his voice vibrating through the air, curling around his ear—but at that point, Will had already given in to sweet, restful sleep.

He floated pleasantly through the dark for a comfortable eternity. 

The heat of Dr. Lecter’s hand clasped on his shoulder and the warmth of his breath ghosting over his ear were the sensations that woke him. He came back to consciousness to the sound of his name on the doctor’s lips, low and smooth. And intimate, just louder than a whisper. He opened his eyes to see Hannibal’s cognac-colored irises, and immediately averted his gaze, shifting slightly further away in his seat. 

Dr. Lecter gave him a little smile. “You were quite deeply asleep,” he said. 

“We there?” Will asked, pushing off the back of the chair to take in their surroundings. 

The smile faded and the lines around Hannibal’s lips turned grim. He put his hand on the door, clicking it open, and with a voice that carried dark promise, answered, “We’re here.”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The views espoused by the characters in this fic toward middle children do not represent the views of the author ><
> 
> I’ve been thinking it may be time to update the summary for this story. Something with more panache. What do you think, friends? Keep it or change it? And if you think I should change it, how and why would help 🤣 Actually, maybe I should do a contest—submit a new summary, or justification for not changing the summary, I guess, and my beta and I will pick a winner. Winner gets credit in the story notes if they want it, a gift of a one-shot, and they can suggest a prompt? Email submissions, maybe?
> 
> If it sounds like fun, let me know and I’ll set up some “rules” so we can make this an actual thing! Orrr if this idea violates the TOS for Ao3, or there’s no interest, someone also let me know so I can hang my head in shame. 
> 
> Next update on 6/11!


	19. Platitudes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 42 minute read.  
The phrase ‘the DMV’ in this fic refers to the DC-Maryland-Virginia metro area, and not to the Department of Motor Vehicles (as it does in most places, including in the DMV). I know, it’s weird.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Nineteen

Platitudes.

-+-

They reached Fayetteville just past eleven fifteen. Jack had set up a command center in an empty office building a few blocks from the O’Halloran residence, close enough that they needed to keep things quiet. The command center had visuals on the house streaming to a set of flat-panel screens on one side of the room, including feeds from body cameras on the in-person cover on site. It made for an impressive setup. 

Jack walked them through the plan: they would wait for the perps to approach the house before the tactical team, already standing by, intervened.

“You’ll be staying here,” Jack said, “along with—”

A knock on the door, and Will’s heart sunk to his stomach. He recognized that knock. 

“Doctor Bloom,” Jack greeted. 

She looked beautiful as always, her hair perfectly styled, her clothing elegant, and a warmth and kindness in her eyes and smile. “Jack, Hannibal.” She paused when her eyes landed on Will. To her credit, none of the warmth or kindness faded when she looked at him. “Will.”

That her gaze slid to Hannibal then, lips falling into a frown, spoke volumes. Though not displeased to see Will, she hadn’t expected him to be here. Of course, she correctly deduced that Hannibal must be the reason he came. 

Which meant that Hannibal made the same mistake Will had during the Angel-Maker investigation: he had cut her out of discussions about the case. Somehow, Will knew that she wouldn’t take it as badly from Hannibal as she did from him. 

“Alana,” Dr. Lecter said, with all the warmth that Alana’s gaze now lacked. He came to his feet, smoothing the front of his undisturbed jacket. Jack followed this old-fashioned courtesy, standing a split-second later. 

Will looked between them and with a sigh got back out of the chair. “Morning,” he grumbled, still awkward, raising the doctor’s thermos of still near-scalding coffee to his lips. 

Alana’s eyes fixed on the thermos, then flitted to Hannibal and back. _ Recognition_. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” she said with a perfunctory smile before gliding across the room to the final open chair. 

“I invited him last night,” Jack said, that victorious little lilt in his voice.

“Jack was kind enough to come to my office and deliver an update on the case,” Hannibal said, a conspiratorial air to his tone. “He caught me unburdening myself to Will.”

Will glanced at Jack, who, despite eyes jumping between Hannibal and Alana, didn’t seem inclined to contradict the statement. _ He sees her tension. _

“Unburdening yourself,” Alana repeated, her posture relaxing slightly. She seemed to take this little misdirection at face value, amused at the idea of Hannibal taking the role of patient in his own office. 

Admittedly, a comical image. 

“Of course, Will was quick to put two and two together,” Hannibal went on, looking back at his friend, eyes crinkled with humor. “And offered his own perspectives.”

That lay more in line with the truth. Jack seemed satisfied, and Alana pacified. Will bit the inside of his cheek so as not to smile. “Nothing useful,” he contradicted, for something to do. “Still not sure why you wanted me here, Jack.”

But before Jack could answer, Beverly poked her head into the room. “Local officers got visuals on the van, about five minutes ago,” she said, passing Jack a grainy photograph of three boys drinking sodas and a woman in a melon-colored jacket. “At a gas station two miles away.”

“Filling up the getaway car,” called Zeller’s voice from the other room. “Practical.”

That final quip ended their leisurely briefing; the command station roared to life, now a hive of activity. 

“The three of you will stay here,” Jack said, in his element as the one in control. “Divide up the screens—Roger here will hook you up to the comms system—and report anything that appears unusual. We’ll make further determinations from there.”

Hannibal and Alana nodded along as he spoke, but Will’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

_ How many eyes were on the house when they raided Eldon? _ Had Jack’s glittered with excitement like this, when he issued the order for them to break down the door?

“Jack—” he started, only to feel the heat of three sets of eyes focus like lasers onto him. “I, uh—” he scrambled, and realized that he couldn’t say what he needed to. _ I shouldn’t be here_. So he said the opposite. “I still have my license,” he said, licking his lips. A finger pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, wiped away the bead of sweat that trickled down its side. “I can go in with you.”

Brief it may have been, but Jack did hesitate to consider the idea before answering. He obviously wanted to accept. Instead, he said, “We have trained agents for that.” He clapped Will on the shoulder—not the warmly affectionate gesture he’d grown used to from Hannibal, but a forceful locker-room slap. “You stay out of the way. Keep out from underfoot. We’ll let you know when we need you.”

They didn’t need him. Not for a while. 

He, Hannibal, and Alana stood keeping a vigil on the screens while the uniforms went out and did the work. And, for a moment there, old instincts had Will on the tips of his toes, reaching for a weapon at his side that he no longer kept there, to seek the comfort of its cold grip. But aside from these brief flashes of cogency, Will felt remarkably distant from the events happening around him. As though he were watching it all unfold from a million miles away.

Nothing touched him.

On screen, the car pulled into the driveway. Behind him, Will registered the sounds of the tactical teams bursting into action, the flurry of movement, the adrenaline palpable in the air. But he tuned it all out, unable to see past anything but the image of the driver door opening, and The Mother stepping out.

A plain woman, older-looking than her age, probably, with strawberry blond hair and a flat, apathetic expression on her face. 

Then the boys. Will recognized them all from their missing child posters, though they’d grown since the photos were taken. CJ Lincoln, Jesse Turner, Chris O’Halloran. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the expression on Chris’ face and knew immediately.

“He doesn’t want to do it,” Will whispered, his entire body breaking out into a sweat. Movement around him slowed to a standstill as his focus zeroed in on Chris’ eyes.

But when Hannibal’s hand closed over his shoulder to give him that familiar, reassuring squeeze, the world started spinning again. “Do you need to have a seat?”

“Yeah, I—” he glanced up at Hannibal and saw Alana watching them out of the corner of his eye, that same half-pitying look as usual, this time with a little accusation in it to give it flair. 

_ You shouldn’t have come_, it said. _ I told you this wasn’t good for you. But you didn’t listen. _

Her concern started to feel sanctimonious. 

“Yeah,” he finished, lame to his own ears, and allowed Hannibal to see him to a chair on the far end of the room. 

He disconnected for a while after that, adrift on the energy around them. Hannibal and Alana remained standing by the screens, discussing the case in low tones, the only island of calm in a room full of noise and movement, and he sat staring at the ceiling, letting his breathing drown out the din, feeling time pass by him, barely noticing him at all. 

“I’m going outside for a sec,” he muttered to no one in particular, perfectly aware that his announcement would be lost in the hubbub. But he needed a moment on his own. Needed a moment to think. 

The wall of freezing air that greeted him outside felt like a familiar friend, shocking his thoughts back into clarity. 

_ It makes sense for Alana and Hannibal to be here_. They would have a hand in the interviews, and maybe even in the clinical care of the victims, when the time rolled around for that. Jack may want Will for the interviews too, but that hadn’t motivated his invitation.

No. He wanted Will to want that badge and gun again. To give up the farce of his consultancy and come on board for real.

“Not gonna happen,” Will sighed, stepping off from the curb and into the street. His footfalls were soft on the pavement. No traffic, no road noise either. 

The silence enveloped him, and the rhythm of his legs moving under him carried him along while his thoughts drifted once more. He slowed to a stop after a while, breathing in the unmoving air. He shivered.

_ Not right_. 

Like a forest fallen quiet and still, the city seemed to sense the danger.

How long had he been out here? How far had he walked?

And still no cars on the road?

A sound—something small, but loud enough in the noiselessness to draw attention—made him pivot. Nothing moving. 

But there. Again. A light gasp—a woman’s voice. 

Will reached for his hip to find it still bare of a weapon. He clicked his tongue. The world remained unmoving around him, like he’d walked into some alternate universe. Now, though, he looked around, vision focused, _ seeing_. He recognized the strip mall up ahead, the laundromat on the right. 

It felt as though he’d walked forever, but he’d only wandered about six blocks from their base of operations. Close.

Another muffled gasp, and his feet propelled him toward the sound. He pulled his phone from his pocket. It took two taps of his thumb to open his favorite contacts and dial Hannibal, sitting pretty at the top of the list. While the phone rang, he focused on following the noise.

“Will,” Hannibal breathed, a little agitated, “Where are you?”

“Across from the laundromat down the road,” he murmured, keeping his voice as low as possible. In the alleyway just up ahead, he saw a flash of color—a distinctive melon-colored jacket. “I need backup. I think I’ve got someone.”

“One moment.” A pause, as instructions were conveyed in the background. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. _ She’s _not.”

“Eva Whitehall,” Hannibal supplied. “She’s taken a shot, and we believe she may be armed. The children are all accounted for.”

“Good,” Will said. “Hanging up.”

No protest as he disconnected the line. He felt of two minds about that. 

“I hear you over there,” came the woman’s voice, louder this time. 

Will hesitated for a moment. ‘_May be armed_.’ No. No. If she were armed, she wouldn’t have called out like this. Too much pain in her voice. He took confident strides over to the entrance to the alley, and rounded the corner to see Eva Whitehall, The Mother, crumpled on the cement, a hand staunching the blood flowing from her wounded shoulder. 

“Those are a bitch to heal,” he commiserated, hand rising to his own shoulder to rub at the old wound. Her eyes, glassy from pain, from blood loss, flashed with a fleeting smile. “Must be a fast runner,” he said, “to have lost them.”

“Track and field champion,” she said, breathier than before. 

“Give ‘em a minute,” Will said, tucking his hands in his pocket, nosing into the protection of the scarf around his neck. “Now they have directions, it shouldn’t be long before EMT gets here. Patch you up.”

“You’re not going to ask me _ why_?” she mocked, staggering as she tried to come to her feet.

“Don’t need to.” he shook his head. “Already know.”

“Because I’m some sick—some psychopath, right?” her legs didn’t want to carry her weight—she sank slowly back down, the grey-colored slush beneath her soaking through the seat of her pants, wicked up by the hem of her jacket. 

“No,” he said, reading the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, the sorrow that kept her lips pressed tightly together. “Because you can only have one family.” 

She stared at him, unblinking. The tension within her unspooled, slowly at first, and then all at once. “Yes.”

The way she looked at him then, he felt full force what had drawn the boys to her initially. Now that she knew he understood, she glowed, all warmth and acceptance. “You honor them like their other mothers wouldn’t. They’re not invisible anymore.”

Her voice shook as she agreed. “I can _ see _them. I see who they are and love them.”

But then he remembered the look on Chris O’Halloran’s face, and couldn’t agree with her. _ No. You see who you want them to be. _

His eyes fell to her wound, watched the circle of blood around the puncture in the jacket as it slowly expanded under her hand. “Do you?” he asked. “Chris wasn’t going to shoot them,” he added at length. “He’s been regretting this for a while.”

She seemed disappointed but not surprised. “I just wanted us to be together, as a family,” she sighed, a tear dripping down her cheek. 

Hannibal’s words about Alana echoed through his mind, then. Eva Whitehall had made the same mistake as Will had. The idea of Chris and the reality of him had turned out to be different. 

“The other boys were ready. I thought, if he saw how it helped _ them_…”

“But they weren’t all ready, were they?” he asked. “Not Chris O’Halloran, and not Colin Frisk. Or any of the others that came before this lot.”

Her lips parted, shocked and ready to argue, but the nearing footsteps beating the pavement rendered her silent. 

Sound and movement returned to the world. In less than a minute, the officer first to reach the scene had her cuffed, face pressed against the grimy brick wall of the building, while he radioed in for EMT. Jack arrived soon after, and though he once more slapped Will’s back in passing, the arrest occupied him too much to launch into a recruitment speech. 

No—that would come later.

Will walked back to the command center, feeling light. He looked briefly for Alana and Hannibal, but they were nowhere in sight. With the boys, no doubt, or the O’Halloran family. He found the chair that Hannibal had settled him in before and sat himself down. 

_ They’ll come get me_, he decided, _ if they need me_. 

-+-

“How many children have you taken into your home in this way?” Hannibal asked, studying the woman in the hospital bed in front of him. Disheveled, eyes red and puffy from crying, face wan from pain and blood loss. The medical staff had taken excellent initial care of the wound, but while it would need operating, no decisions could be made until they’d done their diagnostic imaging. Ample time for a brief interview, before she went under. 

“Twelve,” she said. “Chris was the thirteenth.” A little huff of humor from her, and she lowered her eyes to her lap. Demure, well-behaved. _ Not a farce, _Hannibal surmised, _ but a facet. _

Beside him, Will’s hands began fidgeting. 

Hannibal and Alana had chosen to divide and conquer for the interviews; she would see the two older boys, and he would speak to Eva Whitehall and Chris O’Halloran. Will, no more than a ride-along, had followed after him as though it were a matter of course. 

Now, just as in the Gideon interview, he telegraphed his intent to speak; give him a moment and he would come to his feet and ask his own questions, but only while in motion. Hannibal waited, adjusting his pocket square. 

“You had a different trial for the others,” Will said, as he quit his chair to move behind it, his hands laying lightly on top of the thin plastic back. “But the end is always the same.”

“You can only have one family,” she whispered, looking up at him, lips drawn upward in a faint smile. A private smile.

One he returned. 

Hannibal wondered yet again what they had discussed in the few minutes before the cavalry arrived. 

“They have to choose,” Will concluded after a beat, as he adjusted his glasses. “How were _ you _made to choose?”

She blinked. “How do you know about that?”

“Our Will here has a _ keen insight,_” Hannibal answered. Their own private joke, one which earned him a rueful smile from his _ friend_. 

She looked between them, then back to Will. Her answer came out in a whisper, as though it were for only him to hear. “I had a brother. We were childhood friends—he saw what my family put me through. We both… we both chose each other.”

Will hummed, then sat back down, giving Hannibal back the reins.

Beside her, Eva Whitehall’s lawyer asked her once again if she wouldn’t just _ keep her stupid mouth shut._

The interview lasted only fifteen minutes. The pain medication rendered her lethargic, and when it became evident that the drug had begun to affect her, the lawyer shooed them away, hovering over them as they packed the recording equipment that Jack had sent along, and followed them out into the hall. 

“I hope you’re happy with yourselves,” the lawyer grumbled, adjusting his synthetic-blend tie. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Hannibal murmured, one eye on Will, watching him fumble with the zipper on the camera case. “We may have some questions for her later. I assume that you would like us to reach her through you?”

This seemed to take Mr. Fielding by surprise. “Yes, yeah.”

Hannibal waited a beat, but Mr. Fielding didn’t seem to pick up on what he ought to offer next. “Do you have a business card?”

“Your office should have one on file,” Mr. Fielding said, but dipped into his inside jacket pocket to fish one out for him, anyway.

Hannibal took it with a rigid smile and tucked it away into his own pocket. Will watched this interaction with a look of detached amusement. 

If only he knew. 

When they were alone in the hall once more, Hannibal maneuvered his body to face Will, shielding him from the curious looks over the counter at the nurse’s station. “Shall we head to Chris O’Halloran’s room, then?”

“I, uh…” he took his glasses off and tucked them into his shirtfront pocket. His hand came up and rubbed at his eyes, and then the back of his neck. All the while, he grew progressive pale, as though he might be sick. “I think I should sit that one out.”

Hannibal tilted his head. He had grown used to Will’s nervous sweating, attuned his nose to that fevered bitterness that marked his scent when he went too far down the rabbit-hole of someone else’s mind. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, though the question strayed rather far from what he truly wanted to know. 

“I’m fine,” Will sighed. “It’s just… Eva Whitehall has been a lot to process. I doubt I’ll be helpful with Chris. I might even—” he struggled for words for a moment. “I might even get in your way.” The admission seemed to cost him. His jaw muscles worked, then tensed as though clenching his teeth together. 

Hannibal could admit to a sense of disappointment at Will’s absence, but he chose to linger over the excitement of what probing conversation might follow as they debriefed later on in the evening. 

“Of course,” Hannibal took a step to the left, toward the nurse’s station. “It won’t be long. Where can I find you when I’ve finished?”

“I—” he looked at the nurse’s station to see two young ladies in scrubs looking their way and giggling, and then dug his hands in his pockets. “I can wait in your car?”

Hannibal pulled the keys from his pocket and tucked them into Will’s hand, holding fast. “Shall I walk you out?”

Will snorted at this. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”

“I check the odometer,” he teased, releasing Will’s hands. 

Will was still shaking his head as he turned the corner and disappeared from sight. 

Chris O’Halloran’s room, two floors above Eva Whitehall’s, still buzzed with activity, although the boy escaped all but a minor injury when tousling with officers for control of his gun. Chris sat in the bed, his mother perched on the edge with arms wrapped around him, his lawyer in one of the bedside chairs, and their uniformed guard leaning against the door frame and scrolling through his phone. 

In situations such as these, where children were involved, interviews were much briefer, more closely monitored, and far more frequently interrupted. Chris’ lawyer did not allow him to say much at all, and when he did, Chris’ mother took up the work of silencing him. 

They would view this as protection, of course. 

A shame. He seemed to want so badly to speak. 

As Hannibal began packing after wrapping up their short and minimally informative interview, though, Chris at last demonstrated some spark of independence, of originality. Rather than cowering under his mother’s protective wing, he spoke out. He made himself interesting.

“How’s she doing?” he asked. “Eva.” He tripped over her name. 

_ Not used to using it_.

Hannibal drowned out the sounds of protest from the mother and the lawyer. “She’ll need surgery,” he said, “but she’ll be all right.”

“Can you—can I ask you to tell her something for me?”

“_Chris,_” the lawyer cut in, all but slapping a hand over the boy’s mouth. 

But he pressed on, shrugging his mother’s hand off of his shoulder. “Tell her I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take her family away.”

Hannibal smiled and tipped his chin in acquiescence. “Of course.”

He left the room to the sounds of Mrs. O’Halloran’s sobbing, and the bellowing admonishments of their counsel. His steps were light as he passed through the halls, walked out into the night, the winter’s icy fingers caressing his cheeks.

When he reached the car, the engine purred lowly, and Will lay reclined in the passenger seat, coat and scarf wrapped tightly around him.

He hadn’t run the heat? 

Will greeted him as he got in, but pointedly asked nothing about the interview. Hannibal didn’t mind. He turned the heater on and set about accommodating himself in his seat before he touched a finger to the control panel. 

“I’m afraid I must apologize, Will.”

This earned him a curious look that melted into a laugh when Hannibal dialed Jack’s number. 

Jack seemed pleased by the results of their interview with Eva. “I’ll expect your reports tomorrow, then,” he said. 

“Reports?” Will echoed, indignant. 

Jack ignored him. “Doctor Bloom is still with the other kids. She’ll be working on hers for a while yet. And if you can send me the recording tonight, Doctor Lecter, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“How are _ you _doing, Will?” Jack’s voice boomed throughout the car; as usual, he increased his volume when speaking to Will, for no discernable reason. Hannibal turned the volume dial on the console down, noting Will’s mirthful look of thanks when he caught the gesture. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, voice betraying nothing of the humor on his face. “Successful day. Big collar for you, good job, Jack.”

“For _ us,_” Jack corrected. “I told you I wanted you on my team, Will. Today is a perfect example of why. You brought Eva Whitehall in.”

Hannibal found himself riveted by the exhaustion that fell over Will’s face, the way his soul seemed to drain from his body after so short an exchange. 

“_Beverly _ brought her in,” Will corrected. “You would’ve still caught up to her.”

Jack made a noise of dissent, but Hannibal would brook no more of the cause for Will’s discomfort. Of Jack’s blindness to nonverbal cues as obvious on the nose of his face. “If you’ll excuse me, Jack,” he said, “we have quite a drive back home.”

“Sure, sure, Doctor Lecter. I’ll expect those reports tomorrow, then. And Graham,” he said, eliciting a cringe from Hannibal’s passenger, “call me tomorrow, if you can. I’d like to discuss this in detail.”

“Good night, Jack,” Hannibal said, and disconnected the call.

Will laughed, a low, rumbling noise, and leaned his head back against his seat. “What a piece of work.”

“He seems to have a rather relentless interest in recruiting you.”

“Hates to see good talent wasted.” 

Hannibal put the car in gear and started maneuvering out of the hospital parking ramp. “But he has you for the Ripper. Surely that is not a waste?”

“Not if the Ripper were active,” Will answered, sitting up to shed his coat. The seat warmers in the Bentley were remarkably efficient. “But since he’s keeping to himself for now, Jack sees me as underutilized, certainly.” A pause, and he glanced over at Hannibal, a thoughtful frown on his face. 

“Something the matter?”

“You don’t think I’m selfish?” he asked. “For refusing the other cases?”

Will must already know the answer to that. “Has someone accused you of selfishness?”

“Jack, and Freddie’s latest. But it’s damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Alana’s made her disapproval of my involvement in _ any _ cases clear, but there’s an edge to her disapproval.” He licked his lips. “If my _ mental wellbeing _ weren’t a barrier, I know she’d like to see me working them all. I guess—I guess I’d like to know I’m not letting _ everybody _ down.”

Hannibal smiled. A request for a platitude. But Hannibal would give him more than that: he would give the complete truth. “You’re my friend, Will. I don’t care about the lives you could save. I care about _ your _ life.”

The tension seemed to drain from him and he became loose-limbed in the passenger seat. 

They didn’t speak again until the road signs announced the exit to the I-495 North that would take them to Wolf Trap rather than Baltimore. “It’s perhaps a little late for a dinner invitation, but I intend to eat when I get home.” 

Will’s head lolled over on the headrest toward him, his eyes catching the light and reflecting a pale shade of blue, like thin ice. He said nothing.

“After a day such as this one, I would appreciate the company.”

A soft, comfortable smile pulled on Will’s lips. “I don’t have my car.”

Hannibal huffed his amusement and turned his attention back to the road. A token protest; a problem easily overcome. When the time came to take the exit toward Tyson’s, and Wolf Trap beyond it, he continued on the highway heading North. 

From beside him, he heard a hum, something like a chuckle. And yet, Will said nothing, remaining relaxed in the passenger seat. Trusting.

Not the first time Will had been kidnapped, perhaps. But surely the most pleasant.

-+-

“This is good, son,” Billy Graham said, popping another forkful of Will’s vegetable quiche into his mouth. His eyes squinted closed the way he did when he smiled, and his next words, dripping with affection, were spoken around the food. “‘Bout time you learned to cook.” He swallowed and raised his fork to gesticulate in the air. “Always found it funny your dogs eat better’n you do.”

“It’s a recent hobby,” he said, the rare compliment making his cheeks grow warm. “I’m glad you like it, anyway. Getting the kid to eat _ anything _I make is a nightmare.”

The surrounding light took on a fuzzy quality, like an old photograph, and Will had to squint to keep his father in focus. “Bah,” Billy said, putting down his fork on the empty plate and rubbing a callused hand over his greying beard. “You were finicky at that age, too. And look at you now. Making _ quiche._”

Will’s chuckle overlapped with Billy’s in a pleasant harmony. As little as they might have in common, Will could see the places where he overlapped with his father. “I don’t know, Dad,” he sighed, after the mirth faded. “I’m doing the best I can, but…” 

“You’re feedin’er, clothin’er,” the old man said. “You give her hugs, give her discipline. You’re doing good, Willy. She’s a great kid. You’re a good father.”

Tenderness welled up within him, and he touched his beer down onto the table with a barely suppressed smile on his face. A bashful one, from overflowing pride. _ Dad’s right, _ he thought, rubbing his hand over his mouth to wipe the smile away, _ I’m a good father. _ “I should probably go check on her.”

“I’ll be here.” Billy reached across the table and stole Will’s beer from his place setting. 

Will stood up, clapping a hand on his father’s bony shoulder as he passed behind him on his way to the stairs, and pausing once to scratch Winston behind the ears. Winston nosed at his palm the way he did in the mornings to encourage him out of bed, and the tenderness welled up inside Will again. “You’re a good boy,” he said, planting a kiss on the mutt’s muzzle. 

Still whining, Winston followed him as he opened the door to what used to be an empty, shut up room. Now, it housed the person dearest to him. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark; the moonlight filtering in through the blinds no more than a pale wash that obscured details and blurred lines. “Hey bean,” he whispered into the night. 

Where she lay sprawled on the bed, his daughter shifted in her sleep. 

On tiptoes and as quietly as he could, he made his way to her side, settling down on the edge of the mattress. A loving finger caressed the plumpness of her cheek. _ Such a terror when awake, _ he mused, _ so sweet while asleep. _

“Time to wake up,” he murmured, and her eyelids fluttered open as though she had been waiting for him to ask it of her. “Hey there,” he said, poking a finger into the dimple that appeared on her cheek as her face broke out into a sleepy smile. “You ready?”

She rubbed her tiny fists into her eyes, pale lashes obscuring those dark irises for a moment. “Already?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

When she stood from the bed, she took a moment to smooth the front of her rumpled white nightdress and tug the sleeves down her arms from where they’d bunched at her elbows. A fastidiousness she hadn’t gotten from him, but an endearing trait nonetheless. “Okay,” she said, “Dad.” 

As usual, her little mouth tripped over the word. _ Give it time_, he reminded himself. 

He took her by the hand and led her back to the dining room. Her socked feet made no noise on the wood floors, and with her nightgown trailing down to the floor, she looked like a tiny ghost wending her way through the house. Affectionately, he ruffled her dark blond hair, and then settled a guiding hand onto her shoulder. 

They turned the corner from the foyer and stopped next to the plant wall, her little fingers bouncing along the leaves of the basil, and plucking one from the mint. They entered the dining room to the sound of clinking utensils and classical music.

At the head of the long table sat Hannibal Lecter, a plate of lamb roast and spring salad untouched in front of him. The harsh beam of light from above him cast him as a skeleton. _ The living dead_. 

Will’s lips parted in introduction, but Hannibal stole the words. 

“Mischa?” 

Will lowered himself onto one knee next to his daughter and wrapped his arms around her. He propped his chin on her shoulder and nosed against her cheek. “Okay, bean,” he said, “just like we practiced.” 

From his belt, he pulled his gun, its solid weight pleasantly grounding. _ Finally._ Her little hands rose, and he closed his fingers around hers, adjusting their position on the grip of the revolver. 

“Will,” she said, wide-eyed, staring at Hannibal; her perfect reflection, mute and unmoving.

“Dad,” he reminded her. 

Her hands flexed beneath his, “I don’t—”

“Will,” Hannibal interrupted, his own fingers tightening on his steak knife. “Explain this.”

Will cast an irritated glance up at the man opposite them before returning to his daughter with all the love he had overflowing inside of him. “Come on, now.”

Her lower lip quaked. “But—but, Hannibal…”

Anger spilled over within him, hot and turbulent. The room grew redder. His mouth tasted bitter with resentment at the idea that Mischa had ever looked at Hannibal and seen family, that she saw it even when she looked at him now. 

“No.” His arms around her tightened, viselike. Any more and her fragile bones would snap. “You can only have one. Hannibal left you behind, Mischa. _ I’m the one who sees you.”_

She stared at him, reading him. _ She gets that from me_. Rain pelted the window, pummeling it, beating at it as though demanding entry. At his reassuring smile, she turned her eyes back to her—back to Hannibal. 

_ He’s not her family. _

Not anymore. 

Determination tightened the line of her lips. Still too small to properly support the weapon while firing, she relied on Will’s support in turn as she leveled the gun. Her thumb reached up to cock the hammer, and her finger squeezed a little, overcoming the initial resistance and pushing the trigger back a hair. Ready to fire.

Satisfied, Will turned his attention to their prey. Hannibal sat perfectly still, face placid now and tightly controlled. But he could not hide the murder in his eyes. 

_That’s not right_, Will thought. _That’s not what I’m looking for. _Not anger at Will, but forgiveness for Mischa. And awareness of his imminent end.

“I’m ready, Da—” Mischa started, only for her small voice to drown under the sudden clap and boom of thunder outside. It rattled the glass and startled him from his confusion; his finger twitched, and beneath it, hers squeezed tight. 

For a second, he experienced the world exactly as she did: the shatteringly loud crack of the shot, the fleeting flash from the muzzle, the taste of metal on his lips, burnt nitro in his nose. Her palm cushioned the slap of the recoil, and he could feel her heart thudding, shallow breaths just as quick.

But then his vision sharpened, in time to watch the window behind Hannibal shatter, broken glass showering over a now-empty chair. Hannibal’s body, a blur of motion, barreled toward them, the red glow of the room reflecting off of the edge of his knife. 

Will tossed Mischa aside—heard the sickening crack of bone, her muffled sobs—just in time before Hannibal’s arm swung, bringing the knife down toward him. 

Face cold and still, eyes ablaze. 

Will dodged the assault, rolling away from his daughter and leading Hannibal to the other side of the room. Rainwater poured in through the window, pooling at their feet, filling the room with dark tendrils that reached to climbed their legs and dragged them down. When Hannibal lunged again, Will let himself fall off balance enough to catch onto Hannibal’s arm and wrench his wrist back. The knife dropped to the floor, blade vibrating as it sliced deep into the wood, sticking out upright like the sword in the stone. Deadly sharp. Half-submerged already.

They struggled with clawed fingers and balled up fists, bloodied noses and broken skin. Will saw an opportunity, as they neared the shimmering of broken glass floating like the reflection of the stars in the water; he disregarded the pain as the handful of shards cut into his flesh when he grabbed them, and then lobbed them at Hannibal’s face. 

The doctor turned his head away, eyes closing only long enough for Will to take the upper hand. Legs straddling Hannibal’s hips, he cracked him once, twice, three times in the face, grinding the glass to powder against the planes of Hannibal’s cheekbones, until the doctor lay still below him. 

With the gun, slippery but still dry enough to function, held ready in his grip, he pressed it to Hannibal’s chest, ignoring the smugness, the vindication, the perverse satisfaction in the wide grin on his face. Muzzle digging through the suiting and into Hannibal’s chest, Will’s thumb cocked the hammer. 

Rain poured in through the window, droplets like hail pummeling his head, shoulders and chest, water level rising all around them. The abyss calling them from below.

“See?” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hannibal’s bloody mien. So still. _ But not still enough_. “Just like we practiced, Mischa.” 

Mischa hiccuped through her cries, wailing his name. 

_ You can only have one. _

The gun fired. 

A spray of blood, red as the light, mixed with the rain as it drizzled back down over him. 

Mischa’s sobs behind him died into whines, reached his ears and turned to static.

Blood coated his free hand as he dipped it into the gaping wound, felt the final beats of Hannibal’s heart. He raised his fingers to his lips, found the blood on them cold to the touch.

_ This isn’t right. _ Hannibal’s eyes fixed on him, even in death. Filled with violence. _ This isn’t what I was looking for. _

Another crack of thunder, followed by a flash of light. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of his face in the reflection on the glass.

His face, no longer his, but Eva Whitehall’s.

He’d expected a place like Jackpot—a little grungy, a little sticky, and probably also in a basement. Baba had a different atmosphere altogether, though still underground—hipstery and eclectic, with an almost voyeuristic appeal. A collection of backlit window-frames decorated the wall behind the bar and the adjacent section of ceiling, an assortment of tufted and armless chairs in varying sizes and colors surrounded tables of varying sizes and shapes, and an art wall featuring small but elaborately framed paintings hanging close together, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, sat opposite the bar. _ Hipstery. A little bougie. And what’s going on with Matthew? _

Matthew sat at a table in a private corner, in a chair facing the door. He had dressed more or less to suit his surroundings: dark jeans and worn-in but nice leather derby shoes, and a grey half-zip sweater. 

_ Playing dress-up_. 

“Will,” Matthew said, standing, and the way he said it felt so charged that Will’s step faltered.

“Matthew,” he replied, pulling out the empty chair and plopping himself directly into it. “Sorry I’m late.” After waking in a pool—a _ lake_—of his own sweat, to Winstons’ whines and cold nose pressing against his fingers, he’d taken his time getting up. A long, hot shower; a strong cup of black coffee. He couldn’t find it in himself to rush, still utterly drained from the night before, and didn’t hurry on the drive over either. “This place is… nice.”

But he must not have sounded convincing enough; Matthew’s smile became shark-like. “Much as the DMV likes brunch, it’s only places like this that will do it on a weekday.” He took his seat.

Will shrugged out of his jacket, draped it over the back of his chair, and took a peek at the menu. His eyes landed first on ‘smoked salmon crepes,’ and he put the menu down immediately. The server came by, a young lady with long brown hair slung over her shoulder in some fancy braid. 

“I’m Amy, I’ll be taking care of you,” she introduced herself. Bright-eyed, peppy. “We’ve got two-hour bottomless mimosas and bloodies for twenty bucks today. Have you had a chance to look at the menu yet?”

Matthew deferred to Will, who gave Amy a perfunctory smile. “Just coffee. Black, please.”

“Anything to eat?” she asked, taking the menu from his outstretched hand.

“Two orders of the sliders,” Matthew cut in with that affected lisp again, when he saw that Will starting to shake his head ‘no’. “And another coffee, please.”

Amy gave them both a shy smile, her cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink when Matthew tossed her a wink, and dashed off to get their drinks.

Will turned his focus to Matthew, who watched her until she disappeared into the kitchen. Something predatory shined in his eyes. Will’s gut clenched. Amy seemed nice. Harmless. She didn’t deserve his attention. “Thanks for being flexible with your schedule,” Will said, and Matthew homed in on him as though looking at him through a sniper’s scope. 

“Don’t worry,” Matthew said. Then, “she’s not my type.”

Will blinked. 

“I like…” Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded together halfway between them, “dark hair, curls. Light eyes, you know. Like, uh, Megan Fox,” he said, grinning, his eyes wide, affecting naivety while they skipping around over Will’s face to take in his features. “But you don’t care much about looks, do you?”

For a moment, Will wondered if Matthew was digging for a compliment, or if he was slighting Alana somehow—and if he had been peeping when _ that _ happened, Will would _ kill him_. “I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t,” he said instead.

Amy came back with the coffee. Matthew’s staring continued, ignoring her entirely—inside of Will’s chest, the petty urge to spite him bubbled and burned, so he turned his face up to look at Amy and gave her his most charming smile. Laying the Louisiana on as thick as he could get away with, he gave her a _ thank ya, darlin’ _ that made her cheeks turn ten shades of red before she stuttered her way through an update on the timing of their food. 

Matthew laughed hard and slapped his hand down on the table, jostling their mugs of steaming coffee. “I guess we both like ‘em with an accent,” he said. 

Any mirth Will had absorbed from Matthew dissipated in an instant. That comment could refer to Matthew and Amy both liking Will’s accent, or to Matthew and Will both liking _ someone _ with an accent. The previous comment about looks hadn’t been about Alana after all, but about Doctor Lecter. “Matthew,” he warned.

“You didn’t get home ‘til late, huh?” Matthew continued. “If you overslept.”

“Working a case.” Will ran his tongue over his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Night before, too, as you know.”

Matthew gave him a cheeky grin as he took a sip of his coffee, his body relaxed, sprawled against the backrest of his chair. “I might’ve gathered that.”

“We saw you outside.”

A sourness overcame Matthew’s expression. His lips pursed; his cheeks sucked in between his teeth. “I noticed.”

So Matthew _ had _been watching them, when they stood in the window. He shouldn’t have let Hannibal come so close. Didn’t understand why he hadn’t contested it in the moment. 

_ Shades of Eva. _ A thought for another time. In carefully enunciated words, Will said, “I’ll introduce you to my friends when _ I’m _ready to.” 

“Wasn’t there for the doctor,” countered Matthew, though the grin faded, and Will caught the brief clench of his jaw. 

Leaning back in his seat, Will trailed a finger down the handle on his mug. “Good. He’s off limits, Matthew.”

“Putting your foot down?” Matthew’s eyes flitted over him.

The realization that he’d mimicked Matthew’s posture made Will swallow the retort on the tip of his tongue. It would never be sharp enough, biting enough. No. He would do one better. He would tell Matthew exactly where he stood. “You need to re-evaluate your approach.” He leaned in, as though about to whisper a secret. “Our friendship is pretty new, still delicate. Antagonising me might make me change my mind.”

“You can’t afford to lose my friendship,” Matthew reminded him, affecting the same confidential air. “You ought to be playing nice, Will. I have something you want.”

“No,” he corrected. He reached for his coffee. _ This is where I take the upper hand. Sente. He can follow _ me _ across the board. _ He fortified himself with a sip of the brew—a little burnt and sharply bitter, nothing like that masterful concoction that Hannibal had made for him the day before—and then raised his eyes to meet Matthew’s. “_You _ have something you want to give me. You’re delivering Eldon’s messages to satisfy your own curiosity. I haven’t asked for them. I’ve only sent replies along when _ you _asked for them.”

“Lose my friendship, lose Eldon’s letters,” Matthew threatened, still assertive, though surprise shined in his eyes. 

“I don’t need them.” Will shifted in his chair. Technically true. He might _ want _ them, but he certainly didn’t _ need _ them. “The thing about friendship, Matthew, is that both sides have to want it. You can’t build it simply by exchanging favors. Especially if there are consequences involved for _ not going along_.”

Murder reflected bright in clear in Matthew’s expression when Will leaned back. Anger, resentment. 

_ Coercion doesn’t make good glue. _

The smile Matthew tacked on his face would fool nobody; something for him to work on. “Re-evaluate my approach,” he repeated, after a charged moment. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by an instant and intense curiosity. “You really do see everything, don’t you,” he marvelled. 

The thought crossed Will’s mind that he might be able to get away with anything where Matthew was concerned. That Matthew would always come back around to looking at him like this, full of awe, and so covetous.

“This is what I like about you, Will,” Matthew chuckled, no longer rigid or affronted, but fond. “A lot we can learn from each other,” he added. 

_ Trying to make me want it_.

“What do _ you _have to teach me?” Will asked, a teasing tone in his voice, though he genuinely wanted to know what Matthew thought he could offer.

“Oh, I have some tricks up my sleeve,” he said, and then his eyes darted up and to the left, over Will’s shoulder. 

_ Amy. _

“Here you go, gentlemen!” she said, beaming down at Will, lowering her lashes prettily. No time for Matthew, not anymore. Not after that _ darlin’_. 

Matthew watched her go again, though rather than predatory, he seemed thoughtful as he followed her retreat from the table. He picked up one of his sliders, took a bite, still quiet, contemplative.

“Do you play piano at all?” Will asked, after they’d made some headway into their meals in silence.

“Mm-mm,” he answered, around a mouthful of food. “You lookin’ for a teacher or something?”

“A tuner,” Will sighed. No luck here either, then. 

“I’d like to hear you play,” Matthew said, eyes flitting down to Will’s hands. 

“Nothing to write home about,” Will objected. The slider wasn’t _ bad_. A few months ago he would have liked it better. Now, he had Dr. Lecter’s fine dining and elegant, well-executed cuisine to compare it to. Even the reheated leftovers he’d stuffed into his mouth yesterday morning before heading to Fayetteville had this little restaurant meal beat. 

They ate, between bites exchanging harmless small-talk, sipping coffee. Amy refilled their mugs and flirted with Will over the prospect of dessert. Each time she showed up, Matthew’s eyes took on that reflective cast, as though turning over something of great importance, but he said nothing about it.

Not until they’d settled the bill. Not until they’d outfitted themselves back in their coats and made their way outside. A light snow had begun to fall—a gentle dusting that melted the instant it landed. The air tasted damp, made the breeze stick to his skin.

“You said you like fishing,” Matthew said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That how you pick ‘em? How you bait the line?” Matthew asked.

It took Will a moment to puzzle through the question. The last words they’d exchanged inside the restaurant were about Frederick Chilton and his loss of interest in Gideon’s therapy after the man’s claims had been disproved. But Matthew wasn’t talking about Chilton, Gideon, or the Ripper now. He was talking about Amy.

“Pick _ what_?” he asked, though he already knew. Matthew wanted to imply that Will planned to kill her. _ So completely wide of the mark_. 

“I’m not talking about lovers,” Matthew teased. He kicked his boot against the sidewalk, and then said, as though changing the subject, “Did some research. Looked at unsolved murders in Louisiana from a few years back. That how you’d do ‘er?” 

Channeling Dr. Lecter, Will kept himself quiet and still, except for a slight tilt of his head to the side. He took in Matthew’s face, and the way his expression changed the longer that Will remained silent. From teasing, to doubt, to annoyance, to frustration. When Matthew’s lips parted to speak yet again, Will took the step off the curb and started crossing the parking lot to the far corner where he’d left his car.

“I know you’ve killed before,” Matthew said, a step behind at first but then catching up. “I _ know _ who you are. You’re a hawk. A killer, Will. You and Eldon had—had some kind of—_arrangement_, didn’t you?” 

The keys in his coat pocket jingled as he brought them out. Matthew slapped a hand on the driver door, insinuating his body between Will and the vehicle, preventing his escape. Will sighed, took a step back to put some distance between their bodies. 

Matthew had already made up his mind; arguing would only serve to confirm his opinions. Treating the assertion as ridiculous, however… “You think I killed those people,” Will deadpanned. 

That little shred of doubt crept back into the lines around Matthew’s lips and eyes. “I—”

“Eldon _ kidnapped _ me, Matthew,” he pressed. “He would _ never _want me involved in his work. He wanted someone who could bear witness, who could understand.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. Will held the eye-contact, though it pained him. 

“You’ve read his letters,” Will continued, lowering his voice, making it less confrontational. _ You ought to know_. 

He seemed to turn this over, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, melting from his face. At his sides, Matthew’s hands uncurled. “You bore witness. You understood.” 

Will felt his stomach turn over. Too long looking into those dark irises, seeing the way the gears inside of Matthew’s head turned. 

He’d taken the upper hand during brunch—now he would lead Matthew around the board. But he needed to create a situation that would prevent Matthew from pressing further. _ A mutual life, _ he reminded himself. One in which they both had something on the line, where maintaining the balance outweighed the benefit of breaking it. 

“I understand you,” he said, relaxing his stance, weight mostly on his left foot, hands digging into his pockets. “I know why you’ve set your sights on me. I know what _ you _ want.”

Color rose in Matthew’s cheeks and spread to his ears. 

Will readied himself to step back if the man leaned in for a kiss. The way his lashes were fluttering, he just might do it. “I’m the one who has something _ you _ need,” he added. “Not the other way around.” 

“Asking me to make nice?” Matthew said, laying the charm on, leaning in a little, his eyes sparkling wickedly. 

“Reminding you to re-evaluate,” Will said, calling back to their earlier conversation. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and this time Matthew stepped aside. He unlocked his door and got into the car. Before he pulled it shut behind him, he looked up at Matthew once more and took a deep breath. “You make a lot of assumptions, Matthew,” he said. “Might want to start there.”

The drive from Clarendon back to Wolf Trap took no more than fifteen minutes, smooth sailing on the highway. He ran through the morning’s discussion a time or two. Not his most subtle work, but Matthew didn’t seem to mind that. It had come off well enough. He acknowledged the danger that Matthew might try to remedy his assumption-making by looking for facts to substantiate his opinions. That his stalker-ish behaviours might increase. 

But Will had taken the upper hand. He’d made himself clear that Matthew was not welcome uninvited. That Hannibal was off-limits. And Matthew, so hopeful to please him, would respect that. 

Satisfied, he grabbed his phone off the center console when he hit the first red light off the highway. He’d looked for other options, but nothing had worked out. Time to get this over with, so that the minute he got home, he could pass out in bed and sleep the day away.

His call connected after the third ring. “Chordophone String Shop,” came the pleasant monotone down the line. “How may I help you?”

-+-

Hannibal called from Fayetteville to reschedule his Wednesday patients as well. The pretense, of course, had been that there were many loose ends to tie up in the Lost Boys case, and this remained true to a degree. Still, he could not deny that having a cleared schedule freed him to enjoy the late-evening dinner and nightcap that followed, the low-toned conversation, interspersed with long stretches of calm and comfortable silence, seated in front of the fire with Will by his side. 

On the near hour-long drive back to Wolf Trap, Will had yet again dozed in the passenger seat. Hannibal didn’t return home until almost four in the morning. Not unusual for him on the nights he participated in his extracurricular activities, but a first for a social evening. He slept six hours, woke rested, and made it to Quantico by noon. 

Notes needed to be written, yesterday’s interviews reviewed and annotated, and a report composed and edited. Will, as a ride-along, escaped the bulk of this work, having only the report to write. Hannibal would have been happy to carpool, otherwise. 

His mind returned not only to the pleasant evening, however. The look on Chris O’Halloran’s face when the FBI had burst on the scene had struck a chord in Hannibal, never mind that he only saw it from a distance. He recognized the look—a young man reconciling himself to what he had been _ just about _ to do, so similar to the look one makes when one realizes what exactly they have _ just done_. It flitted through his mind on and off throughout the day. 

He would be glad to put this case behind him. Too many bitter reminders of family, of powerlessness. 

By the time he finished his work and returned to Baltimore, it had long passed seven in the evening. He had some leftovers in his refrigerator that would do nicely for dinner—a pleasant reminder of yesterday evening, spent in delightful company—and went straight from the garage to the kitchen on entering the house. 

A few buttons to warm the oven while he pulled his ingredients from the fridge to bring them to room temperature. He poured himself a glass of wine and carried it down to the front room with him, humming a little Chopin. 

But as he approached the window to draw the curtains, the sight of a familiar, dilapidated sedan parked along the curb across the street caught his eye. 

Will’s voice echoed in his mind, demanding that he call the police. 

He had never quite promised that he would, had he?

A smile threatened the corner of his lips as he deposited his wine on a nearby table. He drew the curtains, adjusted his tie and smoothed the wrinkles from his jacket. A moment to compose himself before he gained the foyer and opened the front door. 

Sixteen steps from his threshold to the driver-side window.

He knocked on the glass. 

The window rolled down, and while surprise glimmered in those dark, beady eyes, the voice that greeted him sounded nothing more than pleased. “Doctor Lecter.”

“I thought I recognized you. What a pleasant surprise,” Hannibal studied the man in front of him. “Rather than sit out in the cold,” he said, “why not join me for a meal?” 

A moment of hesitation before the engine shut off and Matthew Brown stepped out beside him. He followed Hannibal to the house, waiting on the middle step as Hannibal drew his key from his pocket. 

“Please,” Hannibal said, pulling the door open wide, “come in.”

  
  


-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Friday brunch at Baba in Clarendon, guys. I made a fib.  
Also: This is the chapter where Matthew calls Hannibal ugly.  
Also, Also: When you guys say ‘just kiss’, you mean Will and Matthew, right…? *Nyehehehe*
> 
> The summary contest idea fizzled, though a number of you guys gave some great suggestions! I'm still kind of loving the idea of doing a gift-fic giveaway, so if you have any ideas of what we can do for that, I'm happy to hear them!  
You should also probably know that I'm planting the front garden of my new house with Hannibal-appropriate flower language in mind. Foxgloves (hurting and healing), Dianthus (aka Sweet Williams), Bleeding Hearts (unconditional love and compassion), Liriope (I think, patience?).... This is getting out hand.


	20. Anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 26-minute read

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty

Anticipation.

-+-

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Hannibal said, directing Matthew Brown into the guest chair in the kitchen. He should, by all rights, be left in the dining room to wait, but Hannibal knew better than to leave a complete stranger of Matthew’s kind alone in his house. “When entertaining, I prefer to cook from scratch, but as this is an unexpected visit, we’ll be having leftovers tonight, Mr. Brown.”

“Matthew’s fine,” he said, turning his dark, beady eyes about the room, taking in the details. He seemed to have dressed in the style Will Graham so frequently favored—a plaid button-down shirt, snugly fitting but worn-in jeans, heavy boots. He didn’t carry it off as well as Will did, but how could he be expected to, when he didn’t share Will’s fine physique, or his poise?

The oven had preheated during Hannibal’s absence from the kitchen and preparing the leftovers took exceptionally little effort. But Hannibal didn’t allow himself to appear idle. He washed his lunch containers in the sink while the food warmed in the oven, waiting patiently for Matthew to speak. 

“I met with Will for brunch today,” came the orderly’s opening gambit, moments before the oven timer chimed. 

Hannibal gave Matthew a perfunctory smile before retrieving the food from the oven. They did not speak as he plated their meals and placed the dishes on his cart along with the tableware, water, and wine. Matthew followed quietly into the dining room, crossing to the opposite side to study the portrait of Leda and the Swan as Hannibal set the table. 

An indelicate snort. “You got quite a place here,” Matthew said, with none of Will’s charming honesty when he made a similar comment. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, taking the words at face value. “Please, have a seat.” He waited for Matthew to take the inaugural bite of the meal, and when the usual compliments on his cooking did not follow, started on his own. “You were telling me about brunch?”

Matthew hummed, gaze on his plate as he picked around the roasted red peppers on the dish. 

Hannibal suppressed a frown. 

“We usually meet over drinks,” Matthew said. He looked up now, staring Hannibal straight in the eye. “But it’s been harder to pin him down in the evenings, recently.”

Hannibal set his fork down on his plate. His hands clasped, he leaned against the edge of the table. “I suppose you were attempting to pin him down outside of my office, a few nights ago?”

Matthew shrugged. He took a bite of the lamb—actual lamb, this time—and pushed some asparagus to the side of his plate along with the bell pepper. 

“Will does not easily accept overtures of friendship from others,” Hannibal observed. It crossed his mind that he and Will met for the first time on the same day that they first met Matthew Brown. Something to mention another time, perhaps. “He seems to tolerate yours, even if he has yet to accept them.”

“What makes you think he hasn’t accepted them?” Matthew asked, all baseless confidence, setting his fork down too. 

“He asked me to call the police should I see your car again.”

Matthew’s eyes hardened, though the rictus smile on his face did not move. “And instead you invited me in for dinner.”

“I wanted to satisfy a curiosity.” Hannibal tilted his head a little, taking the pause in conversation to study his guest. “You’ve sat outside my office a number of times, but this is the first you’ve come to my home. Why?”

“To satisfy a curiosity,” Matthew answered, cheeky, his smile loosening along with his tone. “I wondered how Will could stand having you for a friend after the way you spoke to him at the hospital.”

“Will has a deep understanding of the inner workings of his fellow man,” Hannibal answered, reaching for his wine. “He can accept my friendship after boorishness arising from professional curiosity, much the same way that he can consider yours, after a clumsy and frankly rather presumptuous gift.”

_‘I know who you are, Will Graham,’ indeed._

Rather than affront at this comment, or surprise that Hannibal knew, Matthew’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “Presumptuous,” he echoed, as though the notion truly amused him.

“Neither you nor I could claim to have a fraction of Will’s understanding,” Hannibal explained. “He is… the sort of man who wears disguise over disguise, concealing his true nature from all but the very few he trusts completely—nobody, at the moment, I would venture to guess. And yet you claimed to know him, without the benefit of a single conversation. Without him being aware of your existence. I call that presumption.”

“There’s such a thing as context,” Matthew argued on a shrug.

Hannibal would not lower himself to debating him over it. No—at the moment, he found himself debating instead the merits of two conflicting drives: the desire to tear this upstart limb from limb, and the desire to see how Matthew’s continued aggressive pursuit of Will would tempt him to act. 

“It’s part of the reason I came here, though I didn’t expect you to ask me in.”

“Part of the reason. Seeking context?”

“That’s right,” Matthew said. He took the last bite of lamb, set his fork and knife down on his dish in the ‘finished’ position, in a valley he’d carved into the mound of food he left behind, and reached for his water. “Friendship didn’t seem to fit. Thought maybe he had other plans for you.”

“You thought he might be playing with his food?” Matthew returned Hannibal’s amused smile with a devilish smirk. “You believe he means to kill me.”

Their conversation paused when, in his pocket, Hannibal’s phone vibrated. He pulled it free, noting Alana’s name on the screen. After redirecting the call to voicemail, he placed the phone face-down on the table beside his place-setting. 

Matthew waited until he had Hannibal’s attention again before answering. “You don’t seem surprised by the idea that he might be a killer,” he said, trailing his finger down the side of his water glass, connecting dots of perspiration on the outside. “Just the idea that he’d pick you for a victim.”

Hannibal considered for a moment. In truth, he had yet to reach a conclusion regarding whether Will made murder a habit, presently or in the past. In truth, he found the question not worth considering. What mattered instead was that, whether or not he exercised that muscle, he rejected the side of himself that enjoyed it. That Will did not live up to his own potential: his uncanny knack for the monsters; that when he looked upon each, he would see not a mask, but a mirror. Above all, _that _potential stunned Hannibal. With his pure understanding of the crimes of others, Will appeared to embody an almost divine sense of the _just_. 

For who can truly judge the actions of others, without that understanding?

_But I digress_. 

“Rather, what surprises me is your having reached those conclusions at all.”

“Will’s not the only one with a keen insight,” Matthew said, eyes glittering. 

Hannibal redirected the desire to clench his jaw to his quadriceps below the table, allowing the muscles to flex, to disperse some of his displeasure. Matthew had been present for that conversation, yes, but he had not been a part of it. Instead of answering, he swirled his glass of wine, the dark red turning cherry-bright as it caught the light. He took a deep sniff of its spiced bouquet, and then a leisurely sip. 

Before him, Matthew snorted. 

Once more composed, Hannibal answered. “His perceptions reflect reality, both the subjective and objective. Yours might be more attuned to fantasy.”

“You think I fantasize about Will Graham?” came the reply, insinuation dripping, viscous and sticky from his voice. “Well. You’d be right.”

Hannibal frowned.

“Sorry, was that inappropriate?” Matthew glanced over his shoulder at Leda and the Swan. “Hard to tell what flies here.”

The phone on the table started vibrating again. 

“You need to get that?” Matthew asked.

Hannibal cocked his head to the side. “It can wait.”

“You’re not at all bothered by the idea, though, are you?” His guest went on, returning to the original topic. He leaned forward a little, presumption in the smirk lifting the corner of his lips. “You a hawk, too, Doctor Lecter?”

_A hawk_. 

“Hawks in myth are almost universally seen as messengers of the spirit world.”

Matthew tapped a forefinger to his temple, then pointed it at Hannibal, as though praising his understanding. 

“And yet, regardless of their importance, the messages they carry are not their own,” Hannibal went on, “no more than glorified carrier pigeons.” He pulled his napkin from his lap and patted his lips, drinking in the sight of the smirk fading from Matthew’s. “While the symbol may suit you, Mr. Brown, I’m afraid I don’t find it applicable to either Will Graham or myself.”

“No wonder he didn’t want me talking to you.” Matthew’s eyes shone like black ice, glazed over in hatred. “He knew that after five minutes in a room together, I’d want to kill you.”

After five minutes together, Hannibal had decided much the same thing. 

Matthew stood. He pushed his seat back as he got to his feet, movements slow, as though afraid that Hannibal would startle. Hannibal followed Matthew’s movements, the way his hand drifted to his belt, the subtle insinuation of a gun holstered there. A tension in the spread of his fingers gave his readiness away.

_I could kill him now, _Hannibal thought. Jump the table, slice open his throat. He gripped his knife, imagining the way the serrated edge would tear through flesh, the spray of blood, the sound of this _pig’s _last breath. One less distraction for Will Graham. 

But then—merely thinking that name presented a perfect alternative course of action. He grew suddenly lightheaded with the _rightness_ of the image: Will, standing in a pool of Matthew Brown’s blood. Wrist-deep in Matthew’s chest cavity, red painting his fingers and forearms, as he reached past splayed ribs to the still struggling heart muscle beneath. Will, vibrating with adrenaline, eyes iridescent, full of the life he would take from this swine as he cut through aorta and pulled out the heart. Will, victorious, drinking in Matthew Brown’s last shuddering breath, his own breath coming all the quicker for it. Will’s impatience for Hannibal to serve that trophy up for him—the pleasure in his features as he cut a slice and took a bite. 

Hannibal almost trembled, the adrenaline within him spiking, his pulse racing. If he closed his eyes, he would be able to see it. 

He would give _anything_ to see it. 

He relaxed his hold over his steak knife and cut a bite from one of the glazed purple carrots on his plate. “Leaving so soon?”

Matthew hesitated, confusion written in his brow. He had expected an altercation, after all. “My curiosity has been satisfied,” he said, tone light, though he still stared hard at Hannibal. “And I have a busy night ahead of me.”

“More messages to deliver?”

Matthew let that slide, though his expression darkened. “I’ll see myself out.” 

“Good night then, Mr. Brown.”

He did not bother to get up and confirm Matthew’s departure. No need; not when his footsteps echoed like gunshots down the hall, as petulant as a child’s tantrum, and true to that form, the front door slammed behind him mere moments later. 

Hannibal shut his eyes, drinking in the pleasure of the silence that settled in Matthew’s wake, and once more conjured the beautiful image of Will, baptized in blood, laying waste to the wasteful. He might have sat that way for hours, if it weren’t for his phone. 

“Alana,” he greeted, answering her third call of the evening. 

“Hannibal,” she said, relief dripping from her voice as it came down the line. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you!”

“I do apologize. I left my phone in the car and have only now retrieved it. Is something the matter?”

“Oh,” she sighed. “Where to start?” 

_So agitated, almost to the point of distraction_. He hummed and waited. Alana would need no prompting to state her business.

“It’s just—” another sigh. “There’s the boys. CJ and Jesse. And then there’s Will.”

He came to his feet almost before he registered the desire to act. “Has something happened with Will?”

“Nothing, yet,” she said. Then, tone ominous, “But it’s about to.”

-+-

Will blinked bleary eyes open. His head pounded, his entire body overheated and slick with sweat. Another nightmare, another feverish awakening. The dogs, he noticed through the haze, were all gathered by the door. Even Winston. 

The pealing of the doorbell jarred him out of semi-consciousness and back into alertness. “Shit.” He jumped out of bed, immediately stilling when the rush of blood made his head throb and his stomach turn all at once. The sensations faded in time for another ring of the doorbell. 

_I didn’t lock the gate?_

“Gimme a minute!” he called, stripping off his sodden jeans and tee-shirt, and grabbing a semi-fresh pair off the back of his reading chair. He dressed quickly, the dogs now huddling around him in excitement, and stumbled his way over to the front door. 

When he opened it, Tobias Budge stood there, expression blank. “I’ve never had a client be late to their own house visit,” he said by way of greeting, “and this early in the morning.” 

Will grunted, stepping out of the way to let Budge in and the dogs out. A few paused to sniff the newcomer on their way, but something about him seemed to repel their interest. Interesting—they’d liked Matthew well enough, but this psychopath they avoided. “I overslept.” 

Budge gave Will a once-over, his gaze lingering for a moment on Will’s bare feet. “I see that.” 

An embarrassed hand combed through what would surely be obvious bed-head, while the other picked his glasses off the bedside table. Protective equipment on, he motioned Budge over to the piano. He’d lost steam with his new cleaning habits during the Lost Boys case, but luckily, when he got home after brunch with Matthew, he had the forethought to clear the top of any dust and personal possessions. He passed out immediately after and stayed that way until the dogs begged for him to let them back out in the evening. 

Budge stepped forward, running a hand over the wooden fallboard once before looking back up at Will. “Are you sick? You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine.” Another pass of clawed fingers through his hair, nails biting against his scalp. “I’m a hot sleeper.”

“Hmm.” 

“I, uh—” The pounding in his head still hadn’t gone away, so he drifted over to the cabinet in the kitchen where he kept his aspirin. “I’ll take the dogs for their morning walk, keep them out of your hair.” And, frankly, to give himself an excuse to escape the inevitable noise that a piano tuning entailed. “Can I offer you a water or a coffee or something?”

Tobias Budge’s visual attention had, by this point, strayed away from Will and onto the books on his shelf, the knick-knacks on the mantle-piece, the disorder on his work table. “A coffee, if you don’t mind.” 

Will grunted. He’d make enough for himself too, so it wouldn’t be a wasted effort, though it had been a largely empty offer. He glanced over at Tobias, noted the sweater vest and bowtie, and felt vaguely that he and Hannibal would probably make fast friends. And would probably both hate his coffee.

Still unmoving, a proprietary hand laid atop the piano, Tobias did not seem particularly inclined to start his work. “You have quite a collection of sheet music,” he said at length, taking a step toward the newspaper-bin that Will repurposed to hold his collection of scores. “Have you begun practicing the Ravel piece?”

“I’ve been waiting,” Will called out over the sound of water pouring into the percolator. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Budge making his way through the room. He picked up a photograph from the mantle and put it down a mere second later. “Can’t focus when it’s out of tune.”

He switched on the coffee machine and stepped back out into the living room, leaning against the wall and watching as Tobias continued his slow examination of the house. “You’ll find it sounds better if you clean up a bit,” Tobias said, fingers stroking the feathers on Will’s lure, still in its vise. Another proprietary touch. 

Will’s hackles raised. “But that would require cleaning up.”

Tobias turned his way, blinking slowly. He didn’t react at all to that little joke. “I’ll get started, then,” he said. “My equipment is in the car.”

“I’ll vacuum real quick while you go get it,” Will said. “It’s a bit dusty behind there.”

“Thank you.”

By the time that Will finished his cursory cleaning and Tobias had set up his tools, the coffee finished brewing. Will poured out a cup for his guest and dumped the rest into his travel mug. “I left yours on the counter,” he said, grabbing a pair of socks from his dresser drawer, then gathering up his coat with his free hand. “I’ll be outside, won’t go too far. You have my number if you need anything?”

Tobias hummed his agreement, already lifting the fallboard and touching his fingers to the aging plastic keys. A few discordant notes in a minor key vibrated throughout the room, and Tobias’ lips pulled downward in dissatisfaction. “I’ll need at least two hours,” he announced. “Four years since the last tuning, you said? I’ve left the entire morning open for you.”

“Thanks,” Will said, unaccountably embarrassed, and sat down on the edge of his bed to tug his socks on. Tobias turned and watched for a moment, then returned his attention to the piano. Will took off his glasses and tucked them into his shirt-front pocket. “I’ll be in and out.”

When he made it outdoors, the dogs were already busy in their usual morning pursuits. Winston trotted over to Will’s side immediately, dropping a tattered neon tennis ball at Will’s feet, his tail wagging in expectation. 

“We’re gonna go for a walk, kids,” Will said, and blinked. _Let’s try that again._ “We’re gonna go for a walk, everyone.” _Better. _

While the last several days had been bone-shatteringly cold, the air so painfully dry it turned skin into leather, this morning took a pleasant turn toward warm, and the kind of humid that usually preceded a nice storm, pleasantly heavy in the air. Buster tagged along close to his heels, darting off every time Will tossed a ball into the distance, even if his short legs meant he’d never reach it before his pack mates. 

“When’s the last time we’ve gone for a good, long walk like this?” he asked, petting Fonda as she brushed by his legs in passing. “Feels like I’ve been too busy for much family time, huh?”

He stopped walking, a pained groan leaving his lips as he buried his face in his hands. All at once, that awful nightmare came back to him. Little Mischa’s heartbroken, pained sobs; the coldness in Hannibal’s voice, the anger in his eyes. 

_Eva_, he pleaded. “Go away.”

One of the dogs bumped him, and jostled his body back into motion, though his mind remained a million miles away. Or, more accurately, fifty-six miles away, in Hannibal Lecter’s sitting room. In some ways, the conversation they had while sitting in front of the fire after their return from Fayetteville felt more like a dream than the nightmare that followed. He could still conjure up the feeling of Hannibal’s blood on his fingertips, the last shuddering beat of his heart, so exquisitely, so convincingly, that it might well have been real.

The details of their discussion during their nightcap… seemed hazy, like a faded photograph.

“Eva Whitehall seemed quite taken with you,” Hannibal had said, his voice like a beam of light through the fog as he put a glass of a crisp white wine into Will’s hand before taking his usual seat across from him. 

Will couldn’t quite recall getting out of the car, walking through the garage and the hallway into the house, or even the now-familiar sensation of the cushions beneath him as he came to a seat. Even as he stared at the fire, legs crossed in front of him, his body felt as though it were floating, suspended several feet into the air. 

“I seem to have taken a bit of her, myself,” he said. 

“A telling slip of the tongue.”

Hannibal’s words had curled around him, teased his skin like skittering spider-legs. They made him itchy. They made him angry. But as quickly as the ire rose within him, it faded away. “I always take a bit of them with me,” he said instead, acknowledging that as usual, Hannibal had come to the right conclusion. 

“You felt protective of Chris O’Halloran,” Hannibal murmured, swirling his snifter. “You felt you would intercede on his behalf, rather than maintain the role of the stoic investigator.” Will said nothing, so Hannibal went on. “You imprint on these killers. How deep does their imprint go?”

“It varies,” had been Will’s answer, before they lapsed into silence. 

Eva Whitehall affected him differently than the others—the more recent ones, anyway. He saw the warmth in her, her affection for her boys. He saw the desire to nurture, to foster a sense of family. How her love for them found reciprocation, even if they could not come completely under her wing. The monster inside of her had qualities that he could accept, in a way that he could not accept the monster inside Elliot Budish or Abel Gideon, for example. Those men stayed with him for a short while, but washed away like grains of salt on the sea-side rocks where they dried. 

But Eva… Eva felt as though she might fester. 

“No. With that dream,” he mumbled into his scarf, kicking his boot into the packed dirt on the trail and remembering the way Hannibal’s nose broke under the pummeling of his fist, “she already is.” 

Will’s phone vibrated in his pocket. As though thinking of him summoned him, a message alert breaking Hannibal’s name winked at him from the screen.

[When you have a moment,] it read, [I would appreciate ten minutes with you on the phone regarding a matter of some urgency.]

The anxiety churning in Will’s stomach congealed to a tangible blob that hardened into lead and dropped to his feet. The shadow of Eldon’s handwriting shined behind his eyelids when he squeezed them closed. _It can wait_, he reasoned, tucking his phone back into his pocket and starting his walk again. _If it was really urgent, he would call. _

Never mind that Hannibal probably chose to text him over this _urgent matter_ because Will had been ignoring his calls. Their conversation that night had rattled him. And the dream that followed… He kept seeing Hannibal’s dead eyes, filled with anger and retribution whenever Hannibal’s name appeared on his phone screen. If he answered, Hannibal would realize. He’d would ask, and eventually wrangle a confession from him.

_‘Sorry I’ve been dodging you,’_ Will would have to say. ‘_It’s just that I’ve been killing you in my dreams.’_

So rather than dissipate, the worry gnawed at him for the duration of the 2-mile circuit. His walk gradually accelerated. The dogs didn’t complain at his heightened pace—they dashed alongside him, panting excitedly, shooting looks of adoration up at him that he didn’t feel he deserved. When they got back to the house, his hair stuck to his forehead and the back of his neck, his jeans clung to his legs, and his shirt to his back. 

The dogs seemed reinvigorated by the jog, and in no rush to return to the house. But Will, soaked through and both boiling and freezing, burst in through the front door.

The discordant twang of one of the piano-keys stopped him short. Tobias Budge looked up at him from his position over the instrument, and his lips flattened into a thin line that curved slightly upward at the corners. An odd semblance of a smile. “A hot runner, too?” he asked, enough humor in his voice to sound human. 

Will huffed in agreement, already on his way to his dresser to grab fresh clothes. “You doing okay in here?” When Budge agreed, he headed toward the stairs. “I’m cleaning up.”

Inside the shower, he washed his scalp so hard it felt as though his nails might bite through and draw blood. If he could claw through, gouge through the bone, and stand with his brain under the spray, he would, just so he could scrub the traces of Eva Whitehall out forever. But when he turned the water off, he could still feel her, clinging to him.

“It seems that Eva Whitehall is out of surgery,” said Hannibal as the clock struck one, that most recent evening in his sitting room.

Will, who had been half-dozing, lulled into a comfortable trance by the warmth of the fire and the beverage in his hands, blinked out of his stupor. “Did Jack text?”

Hannibal did not contradict this—his equivalent of agreement. “She asked after the boys the moment she woke.”

“She’ll never stop being their mother,” Will murmured, feeling some of his tension dissipate. 

“And then she asked after you.” 

Will froze.

“You have a lot in common. She collects boys, you collect strays. Did you collect each other, Will?”

He shook his head and discarded the memory. Skin lobster-red, he dressed to the sounds of the piano tuning downstairs. He didn’t want to share the same space as Budge. Or anyone human, right now. He felt flayed open. So instead of heading down the stairs, back into the living room, he moved down the hall on the upper story.

But that had its own minefield. He drifted toward the spare-room door and clicked it open. His grip on the door tightened with the small fragment of disappointment that followed seeing it empty except for a few cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid containers, stacked high in the corner, instead of outfitted as a little girl’s bedroom. 

_She’s a great kid. You’re a good father. _

The door clicked closed again and dispelled the vision. 

“Mr. Graham?”

The call from the main floor startled him. He’d zoned out, standing there for who knows how long, if Budge had already finished. He rushed back downstairs and came to stop at the bottom when he saw Budge leaning a cocked hip against the kitchen counter, taking a sip from his coffee. “All done?”

Again that flat gaze travelled from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, utterly blank. “Why don’t you play a few notes and see how it sounds.”

The piano looked happier now, he thought, with the bench pulled back and the fallboard up. Like a dog with wide eyes and tongue lolling, sticking its head outside the window. He touched an affectionate hand to the worn-in keys. He pushed a key at random, and the vibrations in the air immediately flooded him with nostalgia. 

Last time he’d played the piano, his dad had sat on the living room couch, egging him on to tickle the ivory. 

“S’not ivory,” he’d protested, but given in anyway.

He closed his eyes and could picture it perfectly. When his fingers started moving over the keys, he could hear it perfectly too. 

“Hoagy Carmichael?” Tobias Budge’s voice asked him from somewhere in the living room behind him. 

“Most people would say Ray Charles,” Will answered, eyes still closed. _Georgia, the whole day through_, he hummed. One of his father’s favorites.

“You play very expressively,” Budge observed, closer still, close enough that Will felt the air move behind him.

His hands stilled immediately on the keys.

The fallboard came down with a quiet _thunk_ and Will pushed his seat back. “It sounds great,” he said, forcing his lips up into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Will you try the Ravel?” Budge asked, leaning down to flip through the sheet music and dig it out. 

The soft melody of _Une Barque Sur L’Ocean_ tinkled in his ears, over the hum of the central heater. “Later,” Will answered, stomach still churning. “It’s a bit of a stretch for me right now. Too rusty.”

“Ah.” Budge straightened. He stared at Will for a long moment, and Will stared back, though he didn’t meet his eyes and focused instead on the tip of his nose. “I may… have brought you a piece,” he said, and then turned smartly toward his bag. He withdrew a slim folder from the outside pocket and pressed it into Will’s startled hands.

“Chopin’s Nocturnes,” Will read. “Not exactly an ideal difficulty level for the out-of-practice amongst us.”

“A challenge I’m sure you’ll rise to.” 

“The nocturnes are so lyrical. Dreamy, romantic,” Will said, flipping open the cover and running a fingertip down the black marks on the page. “I’d peg you for something more dramatic, powerful. The Russians, maybe.”

“But the selection was not made with me in mind, Mr. Graham.”

Will looked up at that, but Budge had already turned away to finish packing up his tools. What did it matter really? Budge’s face betrayed less human emotion than Hannibal’s did, and when he managed it, it always seemed like an ill-fitting disguise. 

“What do I owe you?”

“The music is a gift,” Budge answered. “And the invoice for the tuning will come in the mail in a few days.”

He placed the music on the stand, then clasped his fingers together on his lap. “Well. Thank you.” 

“No need to be so final about it,” Budge said, picking up his bag. Will followed him from a distance toward the door. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing one another again soon, Mr. Graham.”

Feet rooted in place by the front door, he watched Budge cross the grass to where he’d parked his car. A grey hatchback, but a sleek-looking one. Will reached a finger up to push up his glasses, only to realize then that he hadn’t put them back on. He waited until Budge’s car turned onto the main road, out of sight of the house, before he whistled to let the dogs back inside.

He puttered around the house for the next few hours, still feeling too out of sorts to do anything that required real concentration. An extended nap on the couch surrounded by the warm, loving cuddles of his dogs went a long way to making him feel better.

Before this whole thing with Eldon had complicated his life, he’d felt the most human he had in a long time. “Just gotta reconnect with the good things, the simple things,” he said aloud as he wiggled his way out of the mound of mutts surrounding him. 

And then his phone buzzed again. 

The expectation that it should be Hannibal’s name on the screen came so naturally that when he read ‘Alana Bloom’ on the notification, he didn’t quite know how to feel. Not so long ago, the sight of a message from her would have set his heart pounding, his mind whirling. Now, reluctance replaced anticipation. 

_You’re being an asshole_. Alana had treated him exactly the same as she usually did, when they last met. She had been kind and courteous, concerned over his well-being. With time and distance, he recognized that his reaction to her in Fayetteville had been colored by his feelings of rejection. He shouldn’t punish her for his short-comings. 

But he must have taken too long to answer her, because his phone started ringing in his hand. 

Swallowing his aversion, he answered. “Graham.”

“Will,” the relief in her voice stood in stark contrast to his own apprehension, steadily growing now. Something must have happened, to justify that amount of feeling. “Oh, I’m so glad you picked up. Have you spoken to Hannibal?”

“I haven’t.” He winced. So stupid to be avoiding his best friend, over some—some fever dream. 

“Shit.”

A rare curse from her, and she sounded truly frustrated. “What’s going on?” he asked, coming to a tentative seat on the edge of his bed. 

“I thought you’d talk to him. I didn’t want you to be ambushed.”

The ball of lead reappeared in his stomach, and his hands grew so clammy the phone nearly slipped from his grasp. “I’m being ambushed?”

“Yes. Soon. Soon to now. When your doorbell rings, that’s when you’re being ambushed.”

“I didn’t lock the gate,” he realized. 

And then the doorbell rang. 

His fingers twitched, clenching tight around his knee. “Should I…?”

“That’s Jack, Will. I’m here to support you. You don’t have to hang up if you don’t want to.” 

_So caring_, he thought faintly. The same patience and concern that he found so judgmental and sanctimonious in Fayetteville. _I really messed that one up. _

“Graham!” Jack’s voice boomed from the outside. His fist connected with the front door, the force of the impact like a blow to Will’s head.

The dogs rallied around him, bumping their bodies to his, attempting to comfort him. “Don’t hang up,” he said into the receiver, voice as weak to his own ears as the fluttering of his heartbeat. _What the hell is going on?_

On numb feet he crossed the room and laid trembling fingers on the doorknob. The moment it turned under his hand, Jack barreled through from the other side. 

“Graham.” Jack wasted no time, prowling around Will’s living room much the same way Budge had earlier in the day. Looking, touching. Why did everyone feel entitled to his space like this?

“Jack.” He paused, biting down the acid in his mouth. “I have Alana on the phone.”

“Bloom?” Jack looked up for a moment. “Good. Good. Have a seat, Will.” Jack led the way, lowering himself into Will’s reading chair, looking anywhere but at his consultant.

Will lowered himself back onto his perch on the edge of his mattress. “The last time you did this to me, Jack, I ended up getting some pretty disturbing mail.” He couldn’t help the glance toward his nightstand, where Eldon’s letters sat neatly piled inside their drawer, but Jack’s eyes were on his hands, folded in his own lap. 

“It _is_ about Stammets,” Jack said, his tone conciliatory, almost apologetic. 

All at once Alana’s call made sense. Will knew. He _knew_. But he needed to hear Jack say it. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve got the sheriff outside. He’s here to serve your subpoena.” 

“Subpoena…?” He gripped the phone harder. His chest might explode. “That’s not—the trial’s not supposed to be for months.”

“Will,” Alana whispered into his ear. “Breathe.”

“Defense and DA both came to an agreement. Judge Davies’ schedule cleared out. They’re moving the trial date up. Next Thursday.”

“Next—” he sucked in a breath and choked on the words crowding his tongue, unable to focus on anything but the prickling sensation coursing over him, the way his vision seemed to waver in front of his eyes.

“Will, breathe.” Alana’s voice echoed through the empty cavern of his skull.

The edges of his vision grew dark.

“Graham?”

“Oh,” he managed, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

_Oh no._

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks and extra love for my friend laststop, who has been so supportive and helped me work out some serious kinks in the writing for this chapter. You’re a treasure and I adore you. And, as usual, for metricmadscience, who is also the best of frens, and patient and kind and the best and even put off eating so I could talk and talk and talk…  
This one was a hard one to write, guys. Still getting back into the swing of things, I guess. But the end of my furlough is nigh! So that’s exciting!  
Alllllso I’m An Awkward, and I'm new to discord, but have been having fun with it, so I decided to make a discord server for this story, and my fanfics in general, I guess? I thought you might be interested to see what my chapter outlines look like. And for shits and giggles. Come join me over there and have a nice chat! ("A nice chat" apparently means 'appropriate for 18+ only) https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB


	21. Nothing but the truth, so help you God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 28-minute read.  
TW: panic attack

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-One

Nothing but the truth, so help you God.

-+-

> **[[Mushroom Man Trials Day 3, Transcript and Commentary: **
> 
> **Will Graham Takes the Stand!]]**
> 
> Three days into the Mushroom Man trial, Will Graham has at last been summoned to take the stand. Graham, whose questionable history of dalliance with the most depraved minds has netted him a part-time position as a hunting dog for the FBI rather than the prison time it deserves, looked pale, tired, and rumpled when he walked into the courtroom this morning. See picture below, and note the eye bags, uncombed hair, unshaven face, and wrinkled suit. Dr. Alana Bloom—who sources say is one of his team of psychiatric handlers assigned by the Bureau, though she continues to deny a doctor-patient relationship when asked for comment—was present in the court today and left promptly with Mr. Graham upon completion of his testimony. 
> 
> For a purported victim of a kidnapping, he remained remarkably brief in his responses to questions posed by both Assistant District Attorney Ron Gabberdy, and by the defense counsel, Mr. Emmanuel De Russo. He made no outward displays of emotion during the interviews, instead appearing bored and unaffected throughout his testimony. Well, with one exception: his final words before being excused from the stand. 
> 
> Read a copy of the court transcript of this scintillating testimony below, along with this reporter’s analysis. 

“Please state and spell your name for the record.”

“Will Graham. Um, that’s G-R-A-H-A-M.”

“And your occupation, please.”

“Retired law enforcement,” Will said, shifting on the flat cushion of his seat in the witness stand. “I run a—a small appliance repair shop out of my house now.” A beat during which the Assistant District Attorney continued to stare at him, full of expectation, before Will grudgingly added, “I also consult with the FBI on occasion as a criminal profiler.”

Satisfied, the man resumed his thoughtful pacing between the witness stand and the jury box. “Mr. Graham, do you know the defendant, Eldon Stammets?”

Will licked his lips. “We’re acquainted.”_ Some would argue, intimately_. 

From the defense’s bench, a small huff of amusement. That would be Eldon, enjoying the understatement. _Don’t look up_. 

“Can you explain the nature of your acquaintance?”

A big question with a long answer. But Will knew what needed to be said, what the Assistant DA needed to hear. He lowered his gaze from the ADA’s chin, down to the edge of the witness box, tracing the grain of the polished wood back and forth with an imaginary finger. His hands, his most obvious tell, he kept still in his lap. _Keep it simple._ “He filled my prescriptions a few times. And then he—uh—unlawfully imprisoned me in his home.”

Here, the defense attorney made an objection. Will glanced up, caught the way that Eldon’s jaw ticked in irritation at the interjection, how his body moved an inch further to the right, away from his counsel. Fingers squeezing together until they turned white in his lap, Will returned his sightline to the ADA, who took a different tack then, asking for Will to summarize the events of the day he’d been kidnapped.

Will’s hands unknotted. He pushed up his glasses, sucked in a deep breath to gather himself. “It started off as a normal day. Walked the dogs, did some work in the shed. One of my dogs has a blood pressure issue, I was running low on her meds. Went to fill the prescription.”

A momentary sidebar as ADA Gabberdy confirmed the address of the pharmacy Will frequented, and entered into evidence personnel records of Eldon’s employment there, as well as some of Will’s scripts, signed off on by Dr. Stammets. “What happened next, Mr. Graham?”

“I filled Fonda’s—that’s the dog’s—prescription, and when I got back to my car, I was hit over the head from behind. Twice.”

Another pause to refer to the video in evidence that showed the pharmacy’s security camera footage of the parking lot. When they’d played it, some time prior to his taking the stand, Will felt certain that what the court saw and what he saw on the screen were two different films entirely. 

The court saw Eldon pull into the parking lot, the hitch in his step as he saw Will come out of the store. They saw him go still for a handful of seconds while watching Will, then glance at the camera—here the ADA paused to mention that he must have scouted for the cameras before, that he looked directly at it—and then reach into his passenger seat for an object he concealed in his sleeve. They saw him cross the lot and beat Will down, carry him and the paper bag with Fonda’s medications back to his car, where he deposited Will in the front seat, buckling him in, even, before tossing the meds in the footbed and leaving the car to go into the store. 

Eldon apparently stayed inside for eighteen minutes, during which, according to an earlier testimony, he held an informal meeting with his supervisor about scheduling shifts in the fall—appearing “as stiff and unsociable as always, but not nervous, not as though, _God_, as though he’d just bludgeoned a man in the parking lot...”—logged into a workstation for a few minutes to sign off on his time sheets, and purchased some first aid supplies before returning to his car. 

But instead, Will watched the video and saw the internal debate in Eldon’s stance. He _knew _those security cameras were unmonitored, and with nobody around, no passing traffic... Will saw the lure of an opportunity, winning over the desire to maintain the status quo. The unbelievable break in pattern that Eldon should give in to that desire, so publicly, so _impulsively_, no matter how many months he toyed with the prospect. 

“What happened then, Mr. Graham?”

_How would I know?_ he wanted to say. _I was out cold_. “I woke up sometime later in a guest bedroom at Doctor Stammets’ home. Disoriented and in pain. Um. Post-concussive syndrome, he said.” He made the mistake of glancing at Eldon then and immediately drowned in the warmth in his eyes. It suffocated him, filling his lungs and robbing him of breath, his body thrashing under its swell. And yet, when he broke the surface, it took a great effort to stifle an answering smile. 

“Were you aware of your location when you woke?”

“No.”

“But you were there against your will,” ADA Gabberdy said. “You were taken there and kept there against your will?”

Will closed his eyes, searching for patience. “Yes,” he said. “That’s correct.”

“You said you woke in a room in the defendant’s house. Please describe that room for the court.”

“Um. Spare. Utilitarian. A double bed, thin mattress, bolted down. White linens, walls, floors. No decorations. Clinical, almost, like a hospital room. There’s an adjacent bathroom, but kept that bare too.”

“What happened next?”

“I only really remember in snatches,” he said. He licked his lips. “First few days I had that—the post-concussive syndrome. Couldn’t hold anything down. He, um, treated me like a patient.”

“No restraints? Chemical restraints?”

“Not at first. I was too sick to need them.”

“Please tell the court what happened next.”

The Assistant DA moved and spoke with a sort of smugness about him that Will could never get used to. Convinced of his own prowess despite his youth, he wasn’t in the habit of losing cases and certainly had no plans to lose one as high-profile as this. He wore the standard black suit of a government worker, no plaids or paisleys in sight, though he flouted convention with a vivid, powerfully orange tie with an American flag for a tie pin. Will felt in his bones that Dr. Lecter’s stomach would turn if he ever saw the combination. 

“Like I said, I don’t remember much. After I got better, he kept me medicated. Once or twice, he kept me lucid enough to share a meal together.”

> You’ll be as disappointed as I was, reader, that Assistant DA Ron Gabberty failed to ask the question we all want answered. Did Eldon Stammets serve the mushrooms, and did Graham eat them? When interviewed later during the lunch recess, his only answer was, “It’s not relevant to the case. And Will Graham is not on trial.” And yet, knowing what we know about Will Graham and his penchant for shuttering himself up with serial killers, the question becomes more pertinent than ever. 
> 
> Gabberdy did, at least, ask what they discussed over their shared meals, if anything. Will Graham’s responses to that line of questioning were suitably suspicious and disturbing. Read on.

“Conversation?” Will blinked, as though surprised. “He never said much. He—he treats his words like little gifts. Wraps them carefully, and gives them sparingly.”

ADA Gabberdy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sent a quick, uncertain glance toward the jury, as though to see how they took that. 

_Oops._

Will looked out into the faces in the spectator seats, immediately latching onto Alana’s. Her lips were pinched in contemplation, her brows furrowed, eyes boring into Will’s face. When the ADA next spoke, he may as well have been reading her thoughts aloud. 

“Can you—can you explain what you mean for the court?”

He scrunched his eyes closed, bottling his frustration, and then opened them to focus on the inside of his glasses. If only he could be in Hannibal’s cozy sitting room, speaking with someone who understood him. Even knowing that Hannibal’s understanding often came with the kinds of questions that hurt—_did you accept his little gifts, Will? _he might ask. _Do you keep them with you still?—_the prospect of those pointed inquiries seemed infinitely preferable to this bland interrogation. Only Hannibal would think to ask. Would _see_ well enough to ask. 

He swallowed around the sudden knot in his throat, then spoke. 

“He veils his meaning when he speaks. You can’t always take what he says at face value, you have to unpack what he’s actually telling you.”

“A dishonest man,” the ADA summarized. 

Will’s fingers twitched in his lap in concert with the downward twitch of his lips. “Dishonest? No. Guarded. Metaphorical.” 

> You tell me. What does _that _sound like, reader? Someone condemning their abductor? Or defending their partner in crime?

The prosecutor stumbled over that answer, uncomfortable in the face of Will’s objectivity, his neutrality—_not the sympathetic witness he hoped for, maybe_—but he pressed on. “You were kept in the defendant Mr. Stammets’ home for 14 days. What _do_ you recall from that time?”

_Should be ‘Doctor Stammets’, _Will wanted to correct him, his antipathy for the man growing by the second. Never mind that Stammets was on trial; innocent until proven guilty. He deserved the use of his title. 

“I remember…” 

He skimmed over the faces of the jury members, half fascinated and half battling sleep, until one caught his eye. Mid-forties, face lined with exhaustion, coral-painted lips wreathed in the wrinkles of a habitual smoker, eyes shining with suspicion, scanning over him as though desperate to find a flaw. Her hands were tight on the rail in front of her, as though she sat in a roller coaster rather than the jury box. One of Freddie’s readers. Gabberdy’s confusion at Will’s awkwardness, his unsociability, didn’t matter. But this woman’s might. 

His status as an actual victim wouldn’t count, on its own. He needed to be _believable_. 

He closed his eyes, conjuring up the darkness in the bedroom the day of his abduction. The fear and the anger. _Channel that_. “He never told me why I was there or what his plans were for me. He didn’t ask me questions and didn’t really ever answer mine. He...” he swallowed, clenched his jaw. The admission pained him. “He told me he kept a garden.”

“A garden.” A smug look at the jury. “Did that mean anything to you at the time?”

“No. He didn’t explain it, either.”

“In your written statement to the police, you wrote that you attempted to escape.”

“Once, yeah,” he answered. _Twice_. “I was never lucid enough after that to try again.”

A pause as ADA Gabberdy referred to photographs taken of Will after his rescue, the wounds on his feet, his arms. The ones that Eldon’s brisk touch had disinfected and wrapped up, whose healing Eldon had carefully monitored. 

“—of August?”

Will blinked out of his daydreams. Wiped a hand across his face, keyed in to the sweat pooling behind his knees. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you need a moment, Mr. Graham?” Judge Davies interrupted, leaning over to peer down at him. Understanding. Benevolent. _And he thinks highly of himself for those qualities, too. _

“No, um.” He swallowed. “It’s—it’s a lot to talk about.”

“Take all the time you need,” Gabberdy said, picking up the judge’s tone. “When you’re ready, if you can please walk us through the events of the day of your rescue.”

“Right. Sorry, I—” he shook his head. _Focus_. _Stick to the script._ He reached up and scratched at the back of his neck, moved his lips in well-practiced patterns as he spoke. “You said the date, and I—time didn’t mean much at the house.” _At least not at first. “_I, uh, when I got out, I thought I was only there a week and a half, max.” 

“The day of the rescue, Mr. Graham. What happened?” Another push, less gentle and more insistent. 

_Not a patient man_.

“Right. That—it started off the same. Um. He brought breakfast to my room.”

> **_My _**_room_, readers. Breakfast in bed, in _my room_. 

The clammy tip of one of his fingers pushed his glasses up again. “Usually, he gave me some painkillers and then would run a sedative on me. No medication with breakfast that morning, though. I asked about it, but he didn’t explain. After breakfast, he took me to the dining room. Strapped me down the chair, left me alone, and went about his business.” 

“Did he leave the house?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“You say ‘his business’. Can you be more detailed?”

It took some effort to conceal his irritation at that. “I’m afraid not. He went to a different part of the house for most of the day.”

“Nothing comes to mind?” Gabberdy pressed. 

“It’s a well-insulated home,” Will snapped. “I couldn’t see him or hear him, either, and he certainly didn’t_ tell me his plans_.” 

Two surprised blinks. “Right.” When he spoke again, the ADA’s voice took on that coaxing tone that worked better for him before. “Okay. What happened next?”

Will licked his lips. “Eventually, he started cooking dinner, had the television running in the background. You can—there’s a pass-through from the kitchen to the dining room. I could hear he had the news on. The, uh, the cooking sounds stopped when the newscaster—Leanne Steele, I think—when she announced the FBI was looking for him.”

> You will recall this as yet another example of Jack Crawford’s spectacular mismanagement of high-profile cases. Having pegged Stammets as the Mushroom Man, a team was dispatched to the pharmacy he had been scheduled to work at that day, without so much as calling first to see if he had reported in to work. They made such a hubbub and did such a poor job controlling the scene that local news had Eldon Stammets on the air before the FBI even reached his house. 

Will didn’t need to feign the lump in his throat that stopped him in the middle of the retelling. “He acted quickly.” Resentment boiled hot in his blood. “Started a new line on me, strung up an IV, pushed some sedatives.”

He gathered himself, sucking in a steadying breath. How much easier his life would be if this particular lie were true.

“Didn’t—” his voice cracked—“didn’t say a word. Just left me at the table.”

Satisfaction oozed from the ADA. A rocky testimony, but there could be no question that he’d garner a conviction on _this_ count, too. “No further questions.” With a flourish, ADA Gabberdy resumed his seat.

The defense attorney moved to stand, but Eldon’s hand gripped his arm before he finished sliding his chair back. 

“Mr. De Russo?” the judge called.

“One moment, Your Honor.” Will was not alone in staring. Everyone in the courtroom turned to watch as Eldon leaned in and whispered into his lawyer’s ear. Apart from the one little chuckle at the start of Will’s testimony—_we’re acquainted_—Eldon remained perfectly silent, face a blank mask, for the previous two days of court proceedings.

> You will be happy to learn that this reporter timed their conference, reader. Twenty-seven seconds of Eldon’s Stammets’ lips moving. That’s about 68 words, for an average speaker. Eldon Stammets, whose lips have been so notoriously well-sealed, who sat unmoving like a statue even when faced with the family of his victims as they yelled and cried and were forcibly removed from the courtroom on the first day of trial, had sixty-eight words to say to his attorney before Mr. de Russo questioned Will Graham. 
> 
> Shadier and shadier.

As Mr. De Russo pulled away from his client and got to his feet, the moment of perfect silence in the courtroom melted away. Until that moment, the court held its collective breath, ears straining to hear anything of what Stammets said. Now that he finished speaking, their focus dissolved; he seemed to repel their attention with his blandness, his stoicism. 

But Will looked on. He couldn’t help it. As Eldon settled in his chair, he raised his eyes to Will again. He’d been staring for the duration of Will’s testimony, riveted. His gaze was no less intense now—full of meaning, full of secrets.

Immediately, Will felt himself sucked back under the water, into that familiar darkness. 

They shared something. An understanding. Something nobody could ever encroach on. 

“Mr. Graham,” Mr. De Russo started, snapping Will out of his trance. “_During_ your stay at—” he paused to read the address from a reference sheet on the top of his table, “did Eldon Stammets ever hurt you or threaten to hurt you?”

An odd question, carefully phrased. ‘During your stay’ meant _after _he’d beaten Will down and kidnapped him, but even excluding that, Eldon had drugged Will against his wishes. “No.”

Eldon frowned, a fierce thing, and for a split second moved his gaze off of Will and onto his lawyer. He coughed. Mr. De Russo’s hands curled into fists by his sides and then extended long, as though reaching for patience, and moved on. He looked tired, haggard. _He regrets taking on such an uncooperative client_, Will decided, noting the resentment in the stiff set of his shoulders, the ticking of his jaw, whenever Mr. De Russo looked at Eldon. _Worries this will damage his reputation._

“You say he never told you why you were there.”

‘Why you were there,’ not ‘why he kept you there’. At least the man made an effort to do his job, even if his client wouldn’t let him.

“He didn’t.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

Ordinarily, this would be the sort of question the state would ask and the defense would object to. ADA Gabberdy, upon hearing it, looked up from his notes, surprised, though he seemed content not to look this gift horse in the mouth.

Will hadn't expected this question either. Hadn’t prepared for it, the way he prepared for the rest. “Given that I profile for the FBI, do you want my thoughts at the time,” he asked, to buy himself some space to think, “or my thoughts now, knowing the other facts of the case?”

The mundane sounds that always filled a room occupied by so many people—coughing, breathing, shuffling, sighing—stopped for the second time. Nobody expected that follow-up; not ADA Gabberdy, and not Mr. De Russo. 

_They find it odd that I separate the two. They’re surprised by the implication that the thoughts might conflict._

Judge Davies interceded, his voice regretful. “As you’re not testifying as an expert witness, Mr. Graham, please confine your thoughts to your initial impressions.”

“I thought...” he debated still how much he should say. “I thought he was lonely. He always stuck to a sort of script when we interacted before. I don’t know that I was particularly kind to him… so I thought, ‘this must be the best way he knows to connect’. And that he would pick anyone to try and connect with, he was so alone.”

“Why do you think he sedated you when he heard the FBI was coming? If he wanted to escape, that would cost him valuable time.”

_Ah. _He tilted his head and closed his eyes for a second. “I think he worried the tactical teams might misconstrue my presence there.”

This seemed to satisfy Mr. De Russo. “He wanted to keep you safe.”

ADA Gabberdy hollered an objection. The judge waved a hand, and despite his apparent fascination with these exchanges, called out “sustained,” regardless.

> Given that Eldon Stammets pleaded not guilty to all charges, this line of questioning doesn’t seem to be contesting the fact that Eldon beat Will Graham to unconsciousness, abducted him, and imprisoned him at his home for two weeks. While this reporter is no legal scholar, that seems like a fairly poor defense. 
> 
> Is this a setup for an appeal, or is there a more nefarious intention here? Mr. De Russo had only one other set of questions to ask, below. The implications there are clear. This is no attempt at a legal defense hoping for acquittal. Not compared with the rigor of the cross-examinations of previous witnesses. Read the conclusion of this interview below.

Mr. De Russo regrouped quickly enough, though he paused to send a searching look over to Stammets. At Eldon’s nod, he sighed and advanced to the witness stand once more. “My client wrote you a letter from his jail cell, did he not?”

“Yes.” 

_More than one. _

Mr. De Russo referred the court to Eldon’s letter, now in evidence. As if they hadn’t all read it on TattleCrime already. “He asked for forgiveness in that letter.”

_Actually, he didn’t. He said he was writing because _you _told him he should ask for forgiveness. But he never did_. 

“Do you forgive him, Mr. Graham?”

_For what he did to me or for what he did to those people?_ In Mr. De Russo’s mind, that would be splitting hairs. And what could it really matter? Nothing, to the court. Not when there were nine bodies, nine _people _dead, whose families boiled over with rage and grief. 

No. The way De Russo looked at his client before starting down this train of thought told Will that this question came from Eldon. And Eldon would never apologize for abducting Will. Or for connecting those poor lost souls in his garden. 

Will’s eyes drifted over in Eldon’s direction, but saw instead the words, so carefully penned, in his most recent letter. The one that he—and Matthew Brown—had kept secret. 

_ ‘What I want to know you won’t say. What you say won’t be for me._

_ I don’t have your skill, I am not one of my mushrooms. But I feel as though a look from you will tell me what I need to know._

_ I hope it will.’_

“Please answer the question, Mr. Graham.”

That careful penmanship melted away, and Eldon’s blue eyes and the darkness in them came into focus once more. They hung on his every word. Desperate, so desperate for the truth. 

Will’s lashes fluttered down, giving him the brief reprieve of shutting out the world.

“Do I forgive him?” he repeated, angling his body away from Eldon to face Mr. De Russo directly. “No.”

> Another objection from Gabberty, and Judge Davies had that last exchange stricken from the record. De Russo ended his cross-examination there and returned to his seat looking frustrated. Not the way he wanted that interview to go, in this reporter’s opinion. Had he expected forgiveness for his client? And if so, why? Go through it again, reader, think of everything you know about Will Graham, hishistory with killers, and his current work at the FBI, and form your own opinions.
> 
> This reporter certainly has. 

-+-

“Will!” Alana called, her heels clicking an accelerated tattoo as she jogged out of the courtroom behind him. He slowed his pace but kept on walking, knowing that the press wouldn’t be far, and wanting nothing more than to escape them.

All of them. 

But he owed her his attention, even if he couldn’t bear to give it to her right now. 

“Can we talk later, Alana?” he asked when she caught up sufficiently for him to resume his usual brisk stride. “I just want to go home.”

“Will,” she repeated, reaching out and breaching the space between them, her hand alighting gently on his arm. 

He stopped walking and pivoted toward her. He looked down at her fingers, traced the pattern of her forest green wrap dress up to her shoulder. Her eyes looked greener today, reflecting its color, and her cheeks glowed pink from the brief chase. The softness in her expression, the patience, the understanding, made some of his reserve melt away.

“I know you have Hannibal,” she said, voice hushed, as gentle as her touch, “but I want to be clear that I consider you a friend, too. I’m here for you.”

Literally even. She’d come, sat in the courtroom a mere few feet away from him, stayed as he testified, and followed him out to check on him. And yet something about it felt hollow; she may be able to offer her presence, but she could not offer him understanding._ Even knowing she wouldn’t get it_, he reflected, softening under her gaze, _it’s nice that she’s here. _“Thank you, Alana,” Will said. But he couldn’t talk to her about this; he needed to detour this conversation. “I’m glad I—” he swallowed. “I’m glad you can still be my friend.”

Her face colored prettily, and she slowly pulled her hand back. “We share that feeling,” she said. “I didn’t handle that very elegantly, did I?”

The little kissing fiasco. “You were fine,” he said, running fingers through his hair, a wry grin forming on his lips. As predicted, her need to rebalance things between them would sweep in, let her be successfully redirected. “You handled it much more elegantly than I did.”

She smiled, still embarrassed. “Well. I won’t keep you, if you want to go. But maybe we can go for a beer together this weekend, or something? As friends?” 

“Sure,” he agreed, though he had no intention of leaving his house this weekend. Or maybe ever again. “A beer sounds good.”

Alana nodded, satisfied. “I’ll text you,” she said, and after reaching for and gently squeezing his forearm once more, took a step in the direction of the courtroom. “I have to go back inside. Will you be alright to get home?”

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Thanks.” 

She shot him another smile, this one wobbly around the edges, betraying that she’d seen through his sidestepping of her concern, but yielded to his desire to be left alone anyway. She wanted to follow up. To talk more. But she wouldn’t push it. Not now.

He didn’t start toward the exit, instead opting to watch over her as she made her way inside, the click of her heels against the marble floor echoing throughout the hall, the soft sway of her hair across her back with each step. When the courtroom door closed behind her, it felt as though that chapter of his life closed with it.

He shoved his hands in his pocket, breathing out until his chest caved in a little from the force of the exhalation. _Car isn’t far_, he told himself, ignoring his telescoping vision, asking logic to win over it as he faced the exit again. _Keep breathing. You can make it._

As he maneuvered around the courtroom reporters flooding into the hall—Freddie Lounds not among them, thankfully—and weaved through people on their own business in the courthouse, his breath came faster and faster. When he collapsed into the driver seat of his Volvo, his chest shuddered, close to hyperventilating. Inhaling and exhaling in rapid spurts, his vision faded in and out. He kept thinking—he kept _spiraling_—going over everything that happened since the day in the woods where he’d stumbled upon Eldon’s mushrooms, until today. Until not even a half hour ago, when he’d sat in front of the courtroom and helped to put the man behind bars.

God, and looking at his face, Eldon seemed _grateful _for it. 

He’d caught one fleeting glimpse of Eldon’s expression as he exited the witness box. The bone-deep satisfaction in his smile, the joy shining bright from within him. Exactly as he’d written, Eldon didn’t take Will’s words at face value. _He feels forgiven_. _He feels relief_. 

He swiped a sleeve over his eyes, absorbing the sweat from his forehead and the fat tears that had clumped his eyelashes together. I_ should be relieved. It’s over_. But he knew, deep in his gut, that nothing could be further from the truth. A wretched sob escaped his throat, shattering the quiet inside the car, loud enough that he startled himself. One more pass of his sleeve, this time over his nose, and a strong head shake to clear his mind before he shoved the key into the ignition and started the long drive home.

It seemed, while he drove, that he would never make it there. Every mile stretched eternally before him. But when he reached his gate, he could barely remember the drive; still feared that the moment he turned his back, the courthouse would be right behind him. He almost didn’t get out of his car to lock the gate behind himself, wanting nothing more than to stumble through the door and fall into a heap surrounded by his dogs. But today, protecting his solitude took precedence over rushing into comfort. When he crossed the threshold into his house at last, to the chorus of excited barking and wagging tails, he collapsed to his knees and melted to the floor. 

Back against the front door, the mutts created a living blanket over him, all warmth and love, fur and dog-breath. Fonda’s muzzle pressed into his cheek as he burrowed his nose into the top of Penny’s head, one hand tugging on Harley’s ear and the other petting Ollie and Beau’s backs in alternation. The weight, the incredible burden of everything he’d endured with Eldon, melted away.

_It’s over_. 

A precious two minutes of calm descended over him before the wheels in his skull started turning again. 

_If I hadn’t told him I knew_, he thought, and, immediately sick of himself, scrambled to his feet. 

_Stop it. _

His mouth ran dry; his hands shook. _Ice water._ _Ice water will help. _He tripped over the dogs on his way to the kitchen and stuck his pounding head inside the fridge. 

_But he didn’t listen to me_. _He didn’t listen_.

He shut the refrigerator door, blinked twice, and opened the freezer side to pull out an ice cube tray, only three-quarters full, from inside. _It’s over. He didn’t listen, and now it’s over. It’s fine. _Palms clammy and grip weak, he fumbled the tray, knocking a good half of its contents onto the kitchen floor before nearly dropping it onto the counter. 

_Fuck this. A beer. No. A whiskey, neat, and _then_ a beer. _

Once he’d gathered his breath enough to make it to the sideboard, he poured himself out a finger of Jim Beam's finest. That first little sip burned a trail to his stomach, and immediately found himself overheating. 

He stripped his white suit shirt off and tossed it into the haphazard pile of clothing that accumulated in the corner of his room over the past week. Already sweating through his undershirt.

_Skin hurts_. If only he could rip it off. _If he’d listened to me, then—_

With a grimace, he downed the rest of the whiskey. It hit his empty stomach like an anchor falling into the deep. Now at least, he had something to blame for the dizziness that made his thoughts spin, turning over and over and over again. 

He couldn’t sit still when his insides churned this way. His feet moved under him, doing laps of the living room, chasing his own tail. Every so often he’d come to a seat, and the kinetic energy would transfer to his hands, that would quake as they wrung together on his lap. 

_If I hadn’t told him_, he thought. A hand raked through his hair, and sparkles lit up his vision. _I’m gonna pass out_. It took him a moment to gather the strength, but he managed to stand, managed to wend his way through the milling canines toward the bathroom and collapse over the toilet before the bile rose in his throat. 

He didn’t move from that spot until his breathing slowed and the sun dipped below the horizon. The dogs nudged him, hungry now, and he brought his body, slick with sweat, aching and exhausted, upright enough to lumber over to the kitchen. While their food bowls distracted the dogs, Will sat down into his reading chair. He may as well have been a statue, he sat so still, but his mind whirled, trapped in a circle of relief and regret. 

He would have sat there the whole night, if not for the ringing of his phone. 

A glimpse of the clock as he pulled the phone from his pocket. _Seven_. His heart sank into his stomach. To his credit, though Hannibal’s attempts at communication became less frequent, after days of being ignored, they still came. Consistently. Days had passed already, though, since his last call. 

But of course, Hannibal would call today. 

He didn’t want to answer. And yet he did. 

Swallowing guilt and embarrassment, Will brought the phone up in his clammy, tremulous hand. “Graham,” he said, voice squeaking. 

“I wasn’t sure whether to expect you for dinner tonight,” Hannibal’s voice murmured into his ear.

Funny that Will showing up for dinner had become the default assumption, when not so long ago the opposite had held true. Will almost wanted to thank him for saying nothing about the week and a half of radio silence, but he knew Hannibal by now. It would come up eventually. “Yeah, I had a stressful day.” An understatement that coaxed an amused noise from the other end of the line. “Sorry.” 

He should have texted him or called him back. But after they’d returned from Fayetteville, he had that dream. And then after receiving the news about the trial date, he could barely manage to get out of bed, let alone field conversation with Hannibal. Because Hannibal would know, and he would ask, and he would coerce _some kind _of response from him that he wasn’t ready to give. 

“I confess I’ve grown used to having you at my table. I’ve missed our conversations.”

_And there it is_. “I should probably…” he sighed. “I’m sorry.” This time, the apology didn’t come by rote, produced by lips and tongue from habit; this time he pulled it, kicking and struggling, from deep within him. This time, the words carried so much weight and truth, that any resentment he may harbor for Hannibal’s raising the subject, or embarrassment over his own behavior dissipated immediately. Instead, he felt a sick sense of relief. Like frayed nerves were coming back together, like his hands grew steadier, like his skin had cooled.

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, sounding serene. “How are you, Will?”

“I’m—” Will sucked in a breath and let it out between his teeth. Faced with the actual question, he would have to answer. But Hannibal would sense a lie. He might accept a falsehood, the way he had countless times before, but he would _know_. Will shuddered. “I’m not great.”

Another understatement, but still true. And today, after so many lies, the truth felt _good._

“I’ve been worried for you. I wanted to offer you my support.”

“But I wasn’t taking your calls,” Will filled in the blank. His mind grew calm. No longer like the open sea, waves turbulent, heaving in the storm, but placid, an undisturbed pool of water protected from the elements by a surrounding wood. Hannibal had that effect on him. His understanding brought solace—that Will could count on his understanding, even moreso.

“Even had you taken them, I very much doubt you would have accepted anything more.” This, said with a gentle humor. “Or had very much to say.”

“You’re probably right,” Will conceded with a single, pained chuckle. His spirit grew lighter with the balm of forgiveness in the warm laugh that bubbled down the line. _Of course he understands_. How good to be validated.

“Will you tell me, Will? Will you accept my offer now?” Hannibal asked, whispered almost, voice no more than a suggestion on the air.

Hannibal didn’t specify what that entailed, but Will imagined food, conversation, and a comforting squeeze of his shoulder might be a part of it. 

His elbows slid down his thighs until he could dangle his head between his knees. _Why did I avoid this?_ he thought, his breathing normalizing, his heart rate slowing. _What was I afraid of?_

“Yeah,” he sighed, a latent shudder wracking through him before the calm returned. He’d have to unlock the gate. “Yeah, okay.”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to bythefireside27 and cutestofborg and laststop for helping me out with this one. And metricmadscience, as always. Thank you for your hard work, team!
> 
> A fun announcement! This is the first of THREE weekly updates in a row. Expect another new chapter next week Thursday, and another one the week after that!  
Fun times! Interesting, interesting times!
> 
> Just a reminder that I started a discord! https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB <-- there's your invite. It's actually been pretty fun, if appropriate for 18+ audiences! We have a meme repository, a prompts=and-requests one, and a lot of discussion about Hannibal, pets, and just general silliness. And raunchiness and inappropriateness. I'm also sharing my chapter outlines as I post them, and previews of upcoming chapters there. Fun times. 
> 
> Anyway, see you next Thursday!


	22. Interlude: At First.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 25-minute read.
> 
> **Let's wind back the clock a bit.**

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-Two

Interlude

At First.

-+-

When Will woke, he dragged himself from unconsciousness, pushing aside the pounding of his head and the cavernous emptiness of his stomach. His limbs felt leaden, even without the familiar warm weight of his dogs pressing in around him which usually accounted for that heaviness. Time to let them out already? It took him until he blinked the sleep from his eyes, still unfocused, to realize something felt off. _The light isn’t right_. 

He lit his home with the warmth of the sunlight for as long as the daylight held, and then with cozy, amber-tinted lamplight once the night turned too dark to see without squinting. Here, a bright, white-colored light washed down on the room from above. 

_A hospital?_

But why a hospital? He couldn’t remember what brought him here. He thought back, only to find his memories filled with nothingness. A paralyzing prospect, for a man who remembered everything. He blinked again, his vision at last focusing, to take in the drywall ceiling, the white-painted walls. No windows, no decorations. Only a door on either side of the room. Worse, he detected none of that antiseptic smell, or beeping monitors, or shuffling feet and low murmuring from beyond the doors. This room had nothing; just him, alone with this double bed and the nightstand beside it. 

_“Wait—my dogs—!”_

A quick stop at the pharmacy. One hand full of his purchases, the other fumbling with his key-ring. The sound of footsteps behind him, _too late_, before the crack against his skull. 

Will leapt from the bed, startled to feel the floor—_laminate, ice-cold_—under his bare feet. The shock lasted only a moment before he crumpled to the floor, nausea turning his stomach, pressure mounting in his head until it threatened to burst. When the initial jag of queasiness subsided, he pulled himself upright with shaking arms, an inch at a time, and then stood still until he grew certain his legs wouldn’t collapse under him again. 

His exploration of the room, by necessity, took time. He tried the first door, but the handle didn’t move, didn’t even jiggle. Anxiety curdled his stomach. On unsteady legs he made his way to the other door, which opened to a bathroom. A spare thing with a plexiglass enclosure around the shower, single-ply by the toilet, and not a towel in sight. But he might find something useful. He checked the medicine cabinet, and then the linen closet between the toilet and the sink, but both sat empty. 

A wave of panic made his hands grow clammy and tremulous; rooted his feet to the floor. 

_My feet_. Jesus. He’d been—whoever took him took his shoes _and socks_. Echoes of Lenny Marron’s hot breath gusted on his face, and nausea stirred again. But whoever did this was no Lenny. Not some dank shack, a quick scuffle in the dark; this room, well-lit and clean, boasted an air of permanence to it. 

Will shook his head, ran quaking fingers through the hair at his temples. _Okay. So, no shoes_. _My coat_? He checked the nightstand drawer, but found it empty. No coat. No wallet in his pocket, or keys. Watch, phone… even his glasses were missing. 

“Hello?” He called. He pounded a weak fist against the wall, but the drywall didn’t have any give. “Hello?” he called again, putting the pieces together through the muddle of his thoughts. A little movement or a hollow thump at the strike would have given him hope that someone might be on the other side of the door, waiting for him to wake. But concrete—he waited for a solid minute. Nothing. 

Dread pooled low in his gut. 

_Cameras_. The idea occurred to him late, but those two blows to his head had scrambled his thinking. The room, so bare, had very few places to hide one. He climbed onto the thin mattress and stood, knees wobbling for balance, to sweep his hand under the cover of the overhead lamp, then peered into the electrical outlets, patted down the pillow. Nothing. The bathroom mirror came next; when he pressed his palms against it, the gap between his hand and its reflection marked it as a normal mirror and not a two-way. 

Frustrated, he slapped a hand against the glass, before nearly collapsing over the counter from the exertion. _Barely anything and so fatigued already_. 

He caught his breath leaning against the doorjamb. A gust of air across his brow drew his gaze upward. _Air vents_. How had he missed _that_? A small one—four by eleven, or a little more. Not big enough to bust out through, but big enough to fit a camera in. _If I could move the bed over_—but a cursory inspection of the feet on both pieces of furniture ruled that out. They’d been bolted to the ground.

He paced, slow, unsteady laps around the room. _No options. _His hand reached up to rake through his hair again, but as he reached the back of his head, his fingers caught in crunchy, drying mats. A quick examination revealed a few flakes of dried blood caught under his nails. 

_“Wait—my dogs—!”_

He probed his skull with tender touches, fingers coming away again blood-colored and coated in a slick ointment after palpating around the goose-egg where the man struck him. Twice. 

Fonda’s medication in its white paper bag, tumbling to the pavement. The dark shadow looming over him. The baton coming down on him once more. Darkness. And now, this white room, lacking entirely in personality. Quiet, so quiet. His stomach turned; he paused only long enough to settle before he started walking again. 

He ransacked his memories. Legs pacing, his fingers kept busy too, picking at his cuticles. But the circuit wore on him, and he perched on the edge of the mattress. 

If he shut his eyes he could almost envision—but then the next breath his head would _throb_, and he’d lose the thread entirely. 

He replayed the scene, over and over, trying to glean as much detail as he could. Had the man spoken? What did he look like? Will vaguely recalled an outline—_tall, lean_—but with the sun high in the sky behind his assailant, he never saw much of his face. He thought about the clothing the man wore, trying to see if he could place it on any of his acquaintances, but nobody he thought of buttoned their shirts all the way to the top like that. 

_So I know next to nothing about my captor or why I’m here._ Even with his mind and body this sluggish, he’d combed the room thoroughly enough to have found something, assuming something existed in it to find. But even so, he learned nothing useful about his impromptu prison. No window. No details to give away a location. Only four concrete walls, a thin bed and a bare bathroom. What he gathered from that—_a utilitarian space, a practical captor, possibly rushed to put this place together for me to stay_—didn’t give him anything actionable.

_Sleep_, he thought, though instinct urged him to remain awake. Remain _vigilant. _He weighed his options, and logic overrode instinct. He needed to recover, needed to rest. As soon as he gathered any new information, he would need to be fresh to process it, to make whatever decisions would lead to getting him out of here. So he laid down on the bed, the pillow the right thickness under his head—his one comfort in this spare room—and closed his eyes. 

The throbbing pain in his head acted as a blessing here. It took mere moments for him to fall back asleep. 

When he woke again, he suffered the disturbing sensation of not knowing how much time had passed. He blinked the grit from his lashes. The lighting in the room remained the same, still a bright, fluorescent white. 

Will turned his head on the pillow, screwing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth to avoid crying out at the sharp, pounding pressure so minute a movement elicited, now that the initial shock of finding himself captive had disappeared. But once the pressure abated, he keyed in to something different in the air, something that made the hair on his arms stand on end. 

Something in the room had changed. 

The man, his captor, leaned against the door, arms crossed over his chest. Watching from behind flat, expressionless blue eyes. Just… watching. 

Gray polo shirt, buttoned to the top. Khaki pants. Glasses, smudged. Not an imposing figure, and yet the blows to Will’s head told a different story.

“How—” Will started, dragging his body up to a sitting position. “How long have you been here?” Not the question he’d planned on opening with. _You only get one chance to ruin a first impression_.

“Slowly,” the man said when Will’s hand came up to clutch at his head in an attempt to stave off the overwhelming pain. Will shot him a glare. “About fifteen minutes.”

‘_It’ll be about fifteen minutes_.’ Recognition dawned. He’d heard those words in that voice any number of times while running errands for his dogs. “You’re the pharmacist?” Will asked, looking the man in the face for the first time. He looked like a different person out of his white jacket. He looked like a _person_. “Doctor Stammets?”

“I do have a doctorate in Pharmacy,” came the tentative answer, forearms tensing where they crossed over his chest. “But I don’t use the title.”

Will scrubbed his hands over his face. “What—”

“You have questions,” Stammets said, “we’ll get to them later. How do you feel?”

Though he didn’t move, or maybe _because _he didn’t move, the man’s anxiety rolled off of him in waves. _He’s never done this_. Will took a moment to look at him, _really look_. To look in a way that he hadn’t, not since he’d retired from the force and left the mess of Lenny Marron’s aftermath behind him. 

For only a moment. 

He leaned back against the headboard, let his eyelids drift down and released a deep sigh, fighting the urge to swallow the saliva now pooling in his mouth, and swallow again. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Post-concussive syndrome,” Stammets said, heading back into the hallway and retrieving a pink plastic basin. _Makes free with the pharmacy’s medical supply_, Will thought, before leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting into the bin. Stammets held it, face stoic in the single glimpse that Will caught of him between one heave and the next.

Afterward, Stammets helped Will settle into the bed. And when he adjusted Will’s pillow and pulled the sheet over him, Will couldn’t summon the energy to protest. “I’ll turn off the lights,” Stammets said. “Go to sleep.”

This pattern repeated a few times. Will would wake with Stammets in the room, would move too quickly, or find himself in too much pain, or sick to his stomach, and end up passing out again within minutes. For a while there, Stammets ran an IV on him, and though Will wanted nothing more than to rip it from his arm, he couldn’t deny that it made him feel better. So he bore it, thinking of ways he might use the line and the needle as a weapon, only to find both gone the next time he woke. 

They didn’t share much conversation, though Will tried to lure his captor into talking. “Later,” Stammets would say, and Will’s resentment would boil.

When at last he woke well enough to sit at the edge of the bed, and found himself alone, in the pitch black, he resented it even more. He seethed in the dark, tumbling thoughts circling, over and over, thinking through every detail, and still coming up with nothing to aid his escape. This anger faded, though, when, an eternity later, the lights flickered on and Stammets walked into the room; when Will realized his thinking had grown clear. That he wouldn’t be at a disadvantage when at last they spoke. 

“How long have I been here?” he asked, careful not to sound accusatory. He’d never paid much attention to his sometimes pharmacist before, but the impression he’d formed precluded a tendency to violence. Will knew, from _looking _at him now, that he intended Will no harm. But that could change.

“Just under 36 hours,” Stammets said. “Rate your pain.”

He barely contained his snort. _Rate your pain._ _As if he had nothing to do with it_. “It’s manageable,” he answered, and when Stammets’ lips thinned in dissatisfaction, spoke again. “A three, I guess.” 

The frown disappeared, and Stammets nodded, appeased. 

_Values precision_, Will noted, as he scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t know your first name.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” the pharmacist answered. “And time for questions later. Can you keep anything down?” When Will nodded, Stammets left the room. He returned before any anxiety creeped in about how long he might be away, with a plastic cafeteria-style tray in his hands, a glass of water, a slice of plain toast, a steaming bowl of soup, and a rubber spoon and paper napkin on top. “Toast. Clear mushroom broth,” he said. He extended a hand, a paper cup like the condiment cups from burger joints, two round white pills inside. “Aspirin.”

Will settled at the edge of the bed, balanced the tray on his lap. He spared not a single thought on food before then; but now with the aroma of that subtle broth and the familiar enticing scent of bread, his mind conjured nothing but the desire to fill the cavernous pit in his stomach. His abdomen clenched involuntarily at the prospect of food, rumbling its anticipation, embarrassingly loud in the quiet room. Hand shaking from hunger, he reached down to pick up the cup of medication first. 

A glance at the pills, sly enough to avoid notice and still see the medication name pressed into them—Aspirin, as advertised—before he tossed them back. Will picked up the slice of bread next. More toasted than he liked, but he would hardly complain. As he chewed, he observed how Stammets fidgeted: his hands sliding into his pockets, then out of them, adjusting his collar and then smoothing down the front of his shirt. 

When he picked up the spoon, though, Stammets stilled so conspicuously that Will’s own movements paused. His eyes flitted up then, to Stammets’ face, to take in his rapt expression as Will brought the broth to his mouth. 

Something about the intensity in his gaze, the expectation in his expression, told Will that this meant more to Stammets than the simple act of breaking bread together. But whatever its symbolism, or whatever Stammets had put into the soup, Will’s rumbling stomach reminded him that practicality came first in captivity. So, despite his reservations, he parted his lips and drank. Hunger might be to blame, but he found the broth surprisingly tasty despite its simplicity.

“You said time for answers later,” Will said, gathering another spoonful. “How about you talk while I eat?”

Stammets tilted his head, studied Will through his glasses. Will made it half-way through his bowl of soup before Stammets spoke again at last. “Eldon,” he offered, awkward. 

_He hasn’t done this before, _Will reiterated to himself, _and he’s not the social kind_. _Someone who has trouble connecting. _But he always came off as friendly, if impersonal, at the pharmacy. _Someone who does well with social scripts_. Will sipped his soup, fighting down the rueful smile that twitched at his lips. _Need to find him some social scripts for keeping captives happy._

No other words passed between them until Will set down his spoon. “Well, Eldon. It’s nice to, uh, meet you.” No longer a faceless white jacket dispensing his medications; now a person, with his own motivations which became clearer the more they interacted. “To really meet you.” 

But Eldon Stammets said nothing in the face of Will’s sincerity. His brow twitched, and his hands flexed, but he maintained his silence as he took the tray from Will and left the room. 

Either the minutes crawled, or hours went by. On any regular day, Will walked miles. One benefit of having seven dogs. Even with nothing else to do but pace in his room, he couldn’t hope to for enough activity in here. Aware now that Stammets didn’t plan to harm him—at least, not _yet_—any lingering fear abated, anxiety quieted.

He made the bed, then unmade it, then made it again before collapsing onto it face first. Bored, without a clear sense of the passage of time, this room would drive him mad. Maybe hours _did_ pass; when Eldon came back, he brought another meal tray. Will found himself in an odd position. Clearly, Eldon had some reason for sequestering him, but he seemed beyond reticent, wary, uncertain. Will felt like _he _ought to be the one to draw _Eldon _out. An odd way to be a captive, tasking himself to help Eldon be at ease, rather than the other way around. 

“Would you mind putting a clock in here?” Will asked. He wouldn’t contest the kidnapping. Not yet.

Stammets stared at him. Will imagined he could hear the gears turning in his head. “I can do that,” Eldon said. “I have some paperbacks,” he added, after a moment. “Old Westerns.”

Not exactly Will’s genre, but he would take whatever concessions Eldon decided to give him. “Thanks, Eldon,” he said, keeping his voice coaxing, gentle. “I’m ready to talk, when you are,” he added for good measure. 

Eldon considered that piece of information, but instead of acknowledging the indirect request, stood and gathered up the tray. “I’ll be back with the clock and a book.” 

With no other way to mark the time, Will counted breaths until Eldon returned. Long inhalations and controlled exhalations; measured movements of his ribs. One hundred and fifty-eight.

“I’m going to hang the clock,” Eldon said, a bundle under his arms when he came back through the door. “Go into the bathroom.”

“I won’t try to run away.” The promise tumbled from his lips, and he immediately saw his mistake. _Too soon_. Not enough trust between them yet. 

A supposition confirmed, when Eldon stared, motionless. Waiting for his compliance.

“Okay,” he sighed, and obediently walked into the adjacent room, heart dropping when he heard the lock click behind him. He would have tried the handle, but he didn’t want Eldon to hear it jiggle. Not when he needed to present trustworthiness. He took a peek into the shower to find soap and shampoo dispensers but no conditioner, and no toothbrush or toothpaste anywhere by the sink. A frown. He could live without conditioner, but he could never go without a toothbrush. 

His mouth already tasted like ass. He could probably breathe fire. 

When Stammets let him back out of the bathroom, Will made his requests. “I’d like to shower and brush my teeth,” he said, struggling to balance firm and gentle, as he took a small step closer to his captor. Taking up more room, asserting himself. “Do you have a towel, a toothbrush I can use?”

“Tomorrow,” Stammets answered instead. “How’s your head?”

“It’s all right, thank you,” Will said, squeezing his hand into a tight fist to release the tension. 

Stammets turned to leave, and Will withered at the prospect of letting him go. Not yet. He needed _something_. Something to turn over in his mind, when he inevitably bored of _The Log of a Cowboy_. “Um,” Will started, taking another step forward, hand reaching out. An unconscious plea. Stammets’ spine stiffened as he clocked Will’s movement, and his arms tensed at his sides. “I just—” he didn’t know how to say what he needed to say, knew that whatever came out, it wouldn’t be what Stammets wanted to hear. 

“You’re lonely,” Eldon said.

_Unexpected. And true._

“Without your dogs.”

“I’m… yeah.” 

“I’m not sure what to do about you,” Stammets confessed, still holding himself tall, rigid.

“I may have noticed,” Will said, giving him a sheepish smile. He rubbed his neck. “You could always let me go,” he said, because a protest seemed expected. “I could come back and hang out with you over beers, instead.”

“No,” Stammets answered, and pushed up his glasses. “I need you here. Good night, Will.”

_I need you here. _

_I need you here. _

Will batted his eyes open. _Third day,_ he told himself, looking at the clock, an analog one with a date ticker on it. If he’d set it accurately, then this marked Will’s third day in captivity. So far, he’d learned Eldon’s name, that he had a thing for mushrooms, and that this kidnapping had been borne of impulse. An action without a proper plan. And yet he spoke those words, the ones that echoed through Will’s head all night, with more confidence than anything else that came out of his mouth so far.

But _why_? For _what? _If Eldon himself didn’t know, Will would have to work much harder to piece that puzzle together. 

So Will ran through all of their interactions, over and over again. Stammets did not fall in the realm of normal. Antisocial tendencies, maybe. He thought of the intensity in Eldon’s expression as Will drank the broth, that first time. Then, how he seemed happy to please, but only within certain limits. Difficulty connecting, and yet a desire to connect. The darkness simmering inside of him… _A killer? _

_I need you here._

He shook his head, then regretted it when his brain thumped inside of his skull. 

_I get a shower today,_ Will thought, redirecting himself to a less frustrating subject. His first full day back to normal—more or less, anyway, he still had occasional bouts of nausea and an ongoing low-grade headache in addition to the painful bump on his skull—meant more opportunities to observe Eldon for routines, patterns of behavior. To form an actual plan of escape. 

But around seven-thirty, when Eldon brought breakfast, he came with no towel or toothbrush in sight. A mushroom omelet, a bowl of yogurt, a cup of coffee. He said almost nothing, aside from announcing he would be out for several hours at least. 

“No lunch?” Will asked, finishing the modest portions of his breakfast. Modest, but not insufficient. He rarely ever ate breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter. 

“An early dinner,” Stammets informed him. “You can eat in the dining room with me,” he added, already pushing down on the door handle. 

_I need you here. _

But surely for more than companionship.

“Read your book.”

Will read the book. Found himself, despite all odds, immersed in the story. According to the jacket, the author had been a real-life cowboy, and published the first edition in 1901. The hours ticked by as he flipped through the pages; a surprise, for he’d never cared much for genre fiction. _If nothing else,_ Will thought, resting the book on his chest as the hour hand passed noon, _I can say that this little adventure broadened my literary horizons._

When not reading, Eldon occupied his thoughts. _A killer_. He kept coming back to that. The icy darkness in his eyes. Like bottomless pits. _Blue eyes_, he reminded himself, even though he always looked past the color, and into the shadows lurking behind it. 

A flash of memory stole Will’s breath. Lenny Marron, half-obscured by darkness, pinning him down. _“You gon’ leave here a changed man, Will Graham.”_ As though saying the words alone would _make it so_. Will, plummeting into the abyss, the darkness in Lenny’s eyes, _believing him._

“They say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place,” he said aloud, tired of the perfect quiet surrounding him, all at once desperately missing his dogs. With so many of them, his home never sat perfectly still, or perfectly quiet. “You must just have some terrible luck, Will Graham.”

He napped for half an hour and then set about putting his body in motion. Crunches, push-ups. Not the kind to exercise for exercise’s sake, this tedious task made him instantly sore. But he couldn’t sit on the bed all day long. He needed to get his body ready. Primed for movement. For action. 

And yet, any thoughts of fleeing moved to the back burner when his door opened and Eldon stood there, towel, toothbrush, and toothpaste in hand. “Don’t take long,” Eldon said. “I’ll have dinner ready in half an hour.”

“Fresh clothes?” Will asked, and Stammets seemed startled by the request. 

“I should have brought you some.” Distressed.

An odd comment, assuming this was his house. Did he not have clothes here?

“I’ll bring you some of mine to borrow.”

_Oh_, Will realized, shock and relief flooding him, making his body go cold and then warm all over. Brought you some---from Will’s house.

Eldon had been visiting Will’s house.

Now that he looked for it, he saw the stray dog hairs clinging to the hems of Eldon’s pants. A sight so common on his own clothing that he failed to key into its significance. 

_He’s taking care of the mutts._

_He’s taking _care_ of them._

“You’re—you’re looking after my dogs?” Eldon turned to face him, but moved no more than that; as good as confirmation. “Why?”

Now, Eldon cocked his head. Confusion tensed his lips briefly. “Aren’t they important to you?” 

“Yeah,” Will said, the word whooshing from him with the force of his relief, “they are.”

_I need you here_. Enough to care for the dogs while Will couldn’t. He almost didn’t notice when Eldon left the room, too focused on the odd sensation of fullness in his chest.

Eldon returned shortly, a pair of scrubs in his arms. “They’ll be a bit big,” he observed, eyeing Will’s body.

It struck Will that, since his capture, even while exercising, even despite his pains, he hadn’t felt like a body—like a person—until then. As though Eldon noticing it reminded him he was more than his mind, more than an amorphous bundle of thoughts and energy inside of these four walls. 

The shower felt like heaven. He washed away the blood-tinged, greasy ointment that Stammets applied to Will’s goose-egg while he lay unconscious, which had turned his hair into a stiff, matted mess, jutting out from his skull. The water poured out blissfully hot, soothed muscles that ached from captivity, from injury. He rid himself of three days’ worth of anxious sweat and grime, cleaned his skin and focused his mind.

Showered, changed, and teeth brushed in yet another moment of visceral relief, Will headed back out to his bedroom. Stammets turned out to be a comparable height—the pants were only a little long, would likely just reach the ground, if he had been wearing shoes—though a bit broader. Wider. Somehow, he seemed taller in Will’s estimation. 

His position of power skewed Will’s perception. 

_Not good. Not good. _

To his surprise, the door to the bedroom remained ajar. He stepped through the doorway, toes touching down, hesitant, as though testing it for structural integrity. It would be just his luck if the floor were to fall through from his weight, now, wouldn’t it?

He heard noises. Domestic sounds. No television or radio noise, but the sounds of someone bustling about a kitchen, or setting a table. Dishware clinking, footsteps, absent-minded humming. Water pouring. He passed several doors in the hallway, heading toward where the kitchen and dining room were, though he did not stop to test any of them, to peek through to the other side. He suspected Stammets would not take to this kind of intrusion well, that this inch of trust would be quickly and mercilessly ripped away from him if he were to misbehave. 

Time enough for rebellion later. For now, Will needed to gather some intel. To find a door that led to the outside. 

Among all of Will’s _praise-worthy_ skills, he did not count a particularly discerning sense of smell. But there was no mistaking the earthy scent of mushrooms coming from the kitchen. Will replayed the intense, assessing light in Eldon Stammets’ eyes as he watched Will eat the mushroom broth the night before, the mushroom omelet for breakfast this morning. _Expectation_. 

And now, mushrooms again for dinner. 

Eldon Stammets’ house had its dining room right off the kitchen, a pass-through counter and a door beside it connecting the two rooms. He had prepared two place settings across from each other at the dining table. Nice furniture, but dated; the sort of traditional set that showed up everywhere in the nineties. The name bubbled up from somewhere in Will’s head—_Queen Anne style_. Made of maple, and probably upholstered in the nineties too, the seats covered in a faded blue and cream brocade pattern.

Of interest, each of the cushions seemed equally worn. He must rotate the seats. 

There were no forks or knives at either of the place settings, so he occupied the seat facing the kitchen to watch as Stammets moved around in front of the stove. As he watched, his captor ladled some food onto the plates. He must have dropped some onto his hand, because he flicked it with a hiss, and brought the pad of his thumb up to his mouth for a moment before finishing his plating. 

_Clumsy, or nervous?_ Will found himself smiling, and wiped the grin off his face with a vigorous rubbing of the heels of his hands against his eyes.

Eldon walked through the kitchen door with two plates in his hands, and two sets of utensils tucked in the pocket on his apron. Two bottle-necks peeked out from inside. 

_‘I could come back and hang out with you over beers, instead,’_ he had tried to barter. Eldon listened well. 

“Fresh mushroom and leek risotto,” Eldon said, setting a plate down in front of Will. He pulled one beer out and set it in front of him, then crossed over to his side and did the same for himself. 

A light beer, Will observed, frowning. _No accounting for taste. _

Eldon took out the utensils from his pocket, shrugged out of the apron and tossed it over his chair, and then passed a fork over to Will. 

_He’s careful_. 

“Looks good,” Will said, taking the fork—no knife—from Eldon’s hand. “You really love mushrooms, huh?” 

Stammets looked up at him, a suspicious squint. “I keep a garden,” he answered.

_Oh_. 

One word. 

It took only one word for the pieces to fall together. 

_A path wending through the woods beyond the end of the out-and-back trail._

_Seven graves. A garden. Whoever had done this… this was someone who had difficulty communicating with others. Understanding others. _

_“You must have been lonely.” Velvety earth under his fingertips, carefully turned where it covered the grave. “You must be so lonely.”_

_A lot of care had gone into putting this little garden together. But not for the people within the graves; the care was for the mushrooms._

The tightness in his shoulders loosened as he set down his fork at the edge of his plate, as he leaned back in his chair. Eldon, who had been waiting for Will to dig in, whose stare remained fixed on Will the whole time, sat up straighter. 

Will returned his stare, meeting the man’s blue eyes across the table. He reached forward and picked up his fork, speared a shiitake, and brought it to his lips, not breaking eye contact.

A few grains of rice stuck to it: a little undercooked, crunchy between his teeth and gritty on his tongue, but he found nothing to complain about in the preparation of the mushroom. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, picking up his bottle and bringing it to his lips, never mind the brew’s flavorlessness. He didn’t hide the smile that bloomed on his face at the surprise on Eldon’s, at the understanding that passed between them. 

All thoughts of escape evaporated from his mind. Who could think of leaving _now_? Now that the game had changed, transfigured from something perilous to something _interesting_?

His smile morphed into a fierce grin. “I’ve been there.”

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have the first three days of Will and Eldon’s two weeks together. It’s been a long time coming, eh? 
> 
> It's back to the regularly scheduled action next week, my Hannibuddies!
> 
> Far be it from me to say, but it's a good one. 
> 
> ** Also, we’re going to have a podfic! Expect the first chapter this coming week!**
> 
> Big thanks to Metricmadscience and bythefireside27 for their help on this chapter! Would you believe I've had it written since January 16th?
> 
> Just a reminder that I started a discord! https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB <-- there's your invite.  
It's actually been pretty fun! It's definitely for adults only at this point though, you people are just--- anyway, last week we squeed over the reunion, took Hannibal personality quizzes, shared pet pictures and shared fic recs and memes. I also share my chapter outlines as I post them, and previews of upcoming chapters there. You should join us!
> 
> Thank you for reading as always! Kudos and Comments make me remember to breathe~


	23. Confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta Read by metricmadscience and bythefireside27.
> 
> TW: brief transantagonism. To skip, skip the paragraph that begins, “I’m telling you, my guy.”
> 
> Approximately a 37-minute Read

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-Three

Confessions.

-+-

With few exceptions, each of Hannibal’s guests found something to admire in his home, even if their aesthetic differed from his own. They would compliment his centerpieces, or be fascinated by the antique frame around Leda and the Swan, even if they objected to the painting itself. A hunting enthusiast might comment on the mounted antlers, a historian on the tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings in the foyer, a music-lover on the beauty of his pianoforte. Hannibal spent months tracking each new acquisition down, choosing them for their own merits in addition to their contribution to the whole. 

And yet, though he appreciated each and valued them accordingly, not one of them had ever seemed to produce an aura of its own, or produce in him as strong an emotional reaction as the rectangle of glass and metal now sitting in his desk drawer. His cellphone, formerly nothing more than a modern convenience, became a siren song. He remained attuned to its presence at all times, whether he sat in front of a patient or their paperwork, or prepared another solitary dinner at home. 

Will’s habit had never been to reply to a text message or return a missed call immediately. Every so often, he surprised Hannibal with a prompt response, but generally he moved at his own pace. So, when Hannibal’s text went unanswered the morning after their encounter with Eva Whitehall, this did not subvert expectations. 

When his following text messages and phone calls over the next few days went unanswered—two calls and two texts, a reasonable number, starting with topics of conversation and dwindling into simple attempts to check in—had yet to merit a response, Hannibal noticed an unusual tension in his shoulders. Never mind that Hannibal wrote and referenced _an urgent matter_; Will’s radio silence continued. The longer it lasted, the more the tension spread, traveling up to his jaw, forming knots along his spine. Hannibal’s hands felt magnetized around his phone—he would find it in his hand, his thumb mid-way through navigating to his text messages, and would have to put it out of sight to avoid repeating the pattern. 

_Ridiculous_. 

“Doctor Lecter? Did I say something odd?”

Hannibal’s gaze sharpened on Franklyn Froideveaux, who occupied the black leather seat in front of him, as his mind cast off those displeasing recollections. 

“You were a million miles away.”

He didn’t dignify this with a response. “You’ve been dancing around something for a while now,” he observed instead. “It’s unlike you to obscure your troubles, Franklyn.”

“I guess I’m just embarrassed.” Franklyn’s head drooped, and Hannibal took advantage of his patient’s inattention to roll his shoulders. “It’s my friend Tobias.” This, on a long, heavy sigh—one that for once erred on the side of pained rather than theatrical. 

As usual, the silence did not settle for long before Franklyn moved to fill it. 

“He’s—he’s been different. We used to get together a few nights a week. The last week and a half, though… he’s canceled almost all of our plans. And when we meet, he’s distracted. Like he’s somewhere else the whole time.”

Hannibal pursed his lips slightly. He could appreciate the surface-level parallels between his situation with Will and Franklyn’s with Tobias, though one could hardly compare Franklyn’s desirability as a friend with his own. “You are concerned that his distraction is due to disinterest.”

“What else could it be?” Franklyn moaned, burying his head in his hands. 

Hannibal uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. “The motivations of others are often opaque to us, Franklyn. You are quick to insert yourself when that understanding eludes you.”

“You think I’m reading into things,” his patient translated, a tear shining in his eye. A portrait of distress with perspiration shining on his neck, cheeks a mottled red, and a musky spike of body odor. “He’s—” he interrupted himself to reach for a tissue to wipe up the moisture in his eyes, then dab at the sweat. “He’s mentioned a new friend. Just once, but what else could it be?”

_A new friend_. Hannibal splayed his fingers over his thigh, thinking of the way Will would run his open palm down the leg of his jeans, or over the armrest of his chair in Hannibal’s sitting room; of how Will’s body language would mirror Hannibal’s unconsciously, how his speech would fall into patterns plucked from Hannibal’s own lips. Will’s pliability made him vulnerable by definition. It might be possible, he supposed, that Matthew had gained some traction. He might have mentioned their impromptu meal together; fabricated a lie about the subject of their discussions to paint himself favorably and cast suspicion on Hannibal’s motivations. 

Possible, maybe. But unlikely.

Rather than laying the blame on Matthew making inroads, Hannibal suspected Will’s avoidance stemmed from the upcoming trial. In less than twenty-four hours, however, Will’s testimony would be over, and he would have no excuse to distance himself any longer. Any further misbehavior would be unjustifiable—would be _unforgivable_.

Every tick of the clock for those final minutes of Franklyn’s therapy seemed to reverberate through Hannibal’s bones. The moment the clock struck the hour, he ushered Franklyn to the door, controlling his breathing to control his impatience when it appeared the man might linger. Once free of his company, Hannibal turned the lock behind his patient and his feet propelled him back to his desk. He allowed instinct to govern the direction, but forbid it from dictating his pace. Measured steps. No need to rush. 

And yet the drawer clattered as he pulled it open with more force than his wont, his phone sliding contrecoup inside. 

Before this period of evasion, Hannibal planned to attend the trial. He took for granted that Will, who appeared to associate Hannibal’s presence with support, would ask him to be there. He _expected_ it. But, as a fundamentally practical man, he had decided to wait for that request before cancelling his appointments. 

And yet.

No messages. No missed calls. 

Hannibal pressed the power button to turn the screen off and shut the phone away again.

He entertained possible courses of action for a mere minute.

Enough time spent waiting. Inaction accomplished nothing.

Decision made, he picked up his desk phone. Only four appointments to cancel tomorrow. A few apologies and reassurances would pacify his patients; they understood that he also consulted for the FBI, and would assume his cancellations were to do with that. 

True enough, though not how they might imagine. 

He spent his evening preparing. A long, hot bath with Tea Tree, Eucalyptus and Rosemary essential oils to relax the tension in his muscles. A leisurely perusal of his recipe cards. He wavered for a moment when he sat down with his Rolodex, however. Impulse made him reach for Mr. Gerald Fielding’s business card: Eva Whitehalls’ lawyer, whose indecorous tongue had cut off what seemed to be a promising conversation between Eva and Will, who spoke to his client as though she were no more than the dirt under his feet, who dared to chastise them for doing their job. Unprofessional. _Rude_. 

Still, their connection to the man was too fresh; the likelihood that he or Will would come under scrutiny too high. And yet, how could he not find the prospect charming? Not just any offering to lay at Will’s feet—a tangible reminder of Hannibal’s presence in his life. A gentle nudge back into Hannibal’s orbit. 

In the end, however, logic persevered. The risks associated with the choice of Mr. Fielding outweighed the benefits. Hannibal could still achieve the same effect without endangering them both, simply by choosing a different pig to slaughter. So, he flipped past Mr. Fielding’s business card until he found a more appropriate selection. One with no ties to Will Graham. 

For the first night in a week, Hannibal slept the unburdened sleep of the innocent. He woke refreshed when his alarm rang at quarter past two in the morning, dressed quickly, and collected his kit before sliding into his Bentley and starting his evening’s recreation.

Herald Peretti’s home sat on the outskirts of Baltimore, in a well-to-do neighborhood convenient to the city. Hannibal prudently changed cars on the way there; the homes in this area were notorious for their use of security cameras, and while the down-trodden Hyundai of the evening would seem out of place, it would be much more difficult to trace than the Bentley. 

Though they encountered one another only once at an event hosted by the Baltimore Concert Opera, Herald worked rather hard during their brief acquaintance to earn a place in Hannibal’s Rolodex. Hannibal and Mrs. Komeda, gossiping by themselves as they waited for the bartender’s attention, nearly knocked heads when Mr. Peretti bowled into Mrs. Komeda from behind, sloshing his glass of white wine all over her dress, and the last dregs of her Cabernet onto the front of Hannibal’s suit. Mr. Peretti’s meaty fingers grabbed onto Mrs. Komeda as he righted himself, then grabbed her again on the way up, before he mumbled an apology and staggered away toward the restroom. 

Mrs. Komeda’s face drained of color, and both her smile and voice wobbled as she turned down the offer of Hannibal’s handkerchief. “You need it more than I do,” she’d tried to tease through her obvious dismay, before excusing herself to the restroom to clean up, mascara already beginning to run. Hannibal followed her example, though he cherished no illusions that the Cabernet would come out from mere hand soap and water. 

When Hannibal entered the men’s room, however, he did not find the peace and quiet he expected. Mr. Peretti stood there, one urinal apart from an elderly gentleman whose stone-like expression and rigidly forward-facing posture screamed his discomfort. 

“I’m telling you, my guy, Komeda’s a _dude_. I felt that bitch up and there’s _nothing there_.”

Hannibal quitted any efforts to clean himself up, instead departing from the restroom and alerting security to the events of the evening. A frequent patron of the Opera’s, he had some clout. And Mr. Peretti did himself no favors, either; his buffoonery all evening already garnering him some negative attention. Hannibal lurked close enough to hear when the head of security approached Mr. Peretti, as he asked for his identification before promptly expelling him from the premises and barring him from further events. With a name and profession, Herald Peretti presented no challenge to track down. Hannibal obtained the man’s business card a week later from a pretty-faced young secretary with no administrative skills to speak of, managing the front desk at the legal firm that employed him. 

Three years later, Mr. Peretti would at last reap what he had sown. That he shared a profession with Mr. Fielding satisfied the minuscule part of Hannibal that lamented the choice. 

He drove by the house once to find all the lights off inside. Invitation enough to park in the drive. He zipped up the upper half of his plastic suit and donned a pair of nitrile gloves before stepping out from the car, and though he flicked off the headlights, he left the driver door ajar and the engine running in case of a suboptimal outcome to the evening’s plans. Preparations ready, he made his way around to the back of the house. 

Mr. Peretti, in the years since they met, had never rectified his habit of leaving his back door unlocked; the gift of a false sense of security. The door opened into a kitchen. A 1980s build yet to be remodeled. Half-empty Chinese food containers sat on the counter, unwashed dishes in the sink. A tied off trash-bag sat beside the overflowing bin. Not much for domestic tasks, then. But he must be in dire straits to not even invest in a cleaning service. 

Young litigators and their troubles; desperate for a promotion, to make partner. Mr. Peretti, however, no longer fit into that category. He would be a few years past his prime, now. His abysmal character must have led to some difficulties in his upward climb at work. 

Hannibal proceeded through the house, steps quiet and careful. He climbed the stairs, dodging around button-down shirts and dress socks discarded thoughtlessly in the way, until he reached this pig’s sty. The master bedroom door sat wide open, affording Hannibal a peek into yet another unkempt room: clothing blanketed the floor, shoes scattered everywhere, a tie hanging over the doorknob. On the bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled as though they had not been changed in months, slept Mr. Peretti.

Here lay a pig masquerading as a man, but he could not hide his true nature. A perverse inversion of Orwell’s _Animal Farm_. He toyed with that idea for a moment, considering that he had yet to draw on more contemporary texts for inspiration for his works as the Chesapeake Ripper. Like the _objets d’art_ that decorated his home, the Ripper’s tableaux favored a more niche appeal when explicitly referential; not so for Il Mostro’s homages to the Masters. As popular a tale as _Animal Farm_, even someone of Mr. Peretti’s intellectual acumen could appreciate. 

This meant a change in the—to borrow a word—_design _he had intended, but that in and of itself might yield some interesting results. 

Jack Crawford and his team at the BAU, scrambling to decipher whether this was indeed a Ripper kill—and, when Will inevitably confirmed it, to decipher what caused the change in his style. Chasing their tails, Jack at the helm, the blind leading the blind. 

But Will… he felt certain that Will would see through this pivot on Hannibal’s part. He would see the change and _know_. 

‘Why?’ they would ask. 

‘Why not?’ Will would answer.

But though he might lead that horse to water, it would refuse the drink. Jack Crawford, who had grown to love the blinders he wore over his eyes, would dismiss this explanation immediately. Because there _must_ be a cause that would satisfy him, and whimsy would not qualify. 

Excitement quickened his blood. 

Gently as he could, he settled himself on the edge of the bed, withdrew the syringe from his sleeve. A few taps to coax out the bubbles, and he held it at the ready, directly over the spot in Mr. Peretti’s neck where the needle would pierce the skin to administer the sedative.

“Herald,” Hannibal whispered into the dark. 

Mr. Peretti’s eyes snapped open, and Hannibal clapped his free hand down over his mouth. “I would advise you to keep silent, Herald,” he said, touching the sharp to the man’s neck. Leaning in a little to lower his face into the path of a moonbeam, he hissed, “you never know who’s listening.”

Mr. Peretti’s brow furrowed, and his lips moved below Hannibal’s hand to form a word. But he only managed an aborted, “wha—” before Hannibal stuck the needle deep and depressed the plunger. 

“I did say to keep silent,” Hannibal chided. He capped the sharp, secured it in a leather case, and tucked it into his back pocket for later disposal. Now came the work. He hefted Mr. Peretti’s not inconsiderable bulk over his shoulders, taking his time to adjust their positioning before coming to a stand. At the top of the stairs he considered the merits of pitching Mr. Peretti over the side and picking him up again below, but the risk of doing him irreparable damage outweighed the ease of transport. So, with the same brisk efficiency with which he approached every unpleasant task before him, he carried the man to the bottom. 

He tucked his guest into the back of his vehicle, moving his kit to the floor of the passenger seat, and then settled himself in for the drive home. More than once during that ride, he looked to the passenger seat and recalled Will sitting there, his forehead pressed to the window. Easy to imagine, perhaps, when in the company of Ravel’s piano, the same composition that had fascinated Will so long ago. The notes, in their crescendos and diminuendos, washed over him like the waves lapping at the shore, and lent him serenity and calm that felt almost foreign at this point. His shoulders and jaw relaxed, his spine loose, ready to move. 

A freedom of movement he had lost in the days following their return from Fayetteville. He had never utilized his evening hobby as a means for resolving stress before; now, he appreciated its therapeutic properties, aware that this change merited introspection. Some other night, perhaps.

Mr. Peretti woke from his drug-induced sleep an hour after his arrival at Hannibal’s house. His first reaction, predictably enough, after looking down to find himself naked and tied up to the metallic chair bolted to the cement floor of Hannibal’s basement, was to scream. A shrill sound, grating on the ears. Hannibal did not turn around from his current occupation of sanitizing his surgical tools. Scalpels, lancets, forceps, surgical needles, among others; each instrument deserved his time and attention. To be kept sharp for an effortless performance. And, though sterilization hardly need be a concern given Mr. Peretti’s intended fate, clean. After years of medical practice, this became a deeply entrenched habit. A body memory he found soothing and satisfying and found no need to fight.

“You may scream all you like, I suppose,” he said, back still turned. “Though would you consider sparing your voice? I would rather not gag you, and I can assure you that nobody is listening this time.”

“What the hell is going on?” Mr. Peretti demanded. “Who the hell are you. What the _fuck_ are—”

“Ah-Ah,” Hannibal tsked, turning and wagging a finger at his guest. “Language.”

“What the _fuck_!” his guest repeated, though his courage did not extend to finishing the original thought. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You need look no further than your own mouth to explain your current circumstances, after all.”

Mr. Peretti appeared to puzzle through that for a moment before giving up, shaking his head. 

Silent, now. Good. “Nothing coming to mind?” Hannibal asked. He plucked his scalpel from the tray, approaching his victim while slowly rotating the blade in his hands. “No matter.”

“You’re not—you’re not gonna tell me? How the hell am I supposed to apologize, man, if—”

“Shh.” 

Herald’s lips snapped closed, his jaw working, his eyes darting left and right, then back to the scalpel in Hannibal’s hand.

“There, now,” he said, hefting Mr. Peretti’s limp right hand in his own, and giving his guest his most charming smile. “Much better.”

He sliced through skin, muscle, tendon and artery in one quick strike, nearly severing the hand at the wrist, to the music of Mr. Peretti’s anguished screams. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’ll quiet down soon enough.”

Hands now dangling uselessly, barely attached, from Herald’s wrists, Hannibal knew he must act fast. A few quick, practiced incisions to retrieve the choicest cuts, before the blood stopped flowing, before the flesh died, and the soul departed the body.

With these minor surgeries completed and the last gurgles of Herald Peretti’s wailing voice disappearing into the air, Hannibal ambled over to his record-player. Goldberg’s Variations. A moment to indulge in the sweet melody before he got to work. His tendency had always been to lose himself, so deeply focused by the act of creation, _transformation_, that any sense of time escaped him. At the outset of the evening he worried that his uncommon state of tension would encumber his work. Sap his inspiration. Erode his fun. 

Fortunately, the familiar routine of butchering his pig eased the remaining stiffness from his taut muscles, and the joy of his artistry soothed the darkness swirling in his mind. Indeed, his hands seemed to move of their own accord, dancing along as they worked, almost on instinct. 

The first stage of preparations came easily to him, a choreography that engaged his body and freed his mind to map out the progression of his task. How he would make his incisions, deglove the skin of the hands, cut through bone, then shave and shape it… Unlike clay, flesh of this variety did not reform more than once. All evolutions in the shape of his medium must be made with the idea of their permanence in mind. He must attack the task with focus and premeditation, his end goal established long before his first incision. 

This made the finishing touches so satisfying: the final rejoining of parted skin, the tying of sutures, the proverbial ribbon wrapped around his little gift for the FBI.

Hannibal’s phone vibrated where it sat on the worktable. The thought—a fleeting thing, quickly tempered—that it might be Will crossed his mind. Much as it would be the most desirable outcome, it seemed more likely that Jack, with his incredible knack for interruption, had sensed Hannibal’s thoughts turning to that noble institution, and placed the call. And yet, when he turned his attention to the screen, he found himself surprised.

Five hours had passed, immersed in his work. And, instead of Jack’s name flashing up at him from below the time, he saw Alana’s. This more pleasant third choice put a smile into his voice as he answered. “Alana,” he said, setting down his surgical needle to give her his full attention.

“Hannibal,” she replied, voice stiff. “Where were you today?”

_Ah_. “You mean to ask, why was I not at the courthouse.”

“Will had to testify,” she said. “I thought you would be here for him.”

In truth, he _had_ planned to be. But Will’s reticence called into question whether his presence would be welcome. That, and some other pressing business trussed up on his surgical table, still waited to be resolved. “I could not be there in person,” he murmured regretfully, without having to feign the emotion, “but rest assured that Will knows I am there to support him.”

“Have you called him?” She sighed, but did not give him a chance to answer. “I haven’t spoken to him since he left the courthouse. I wanted to check in on him, but after Freddie Lounds posted his testimony online, I thought a phone call would seem too—too pointed.”

“You’re concerned he would see your concern as clinical rather than friendly,” Hannibal summarized, already moving to the sink to strip off his gloves so he could fetch his tablet from the office upstairs. Freddie could make herself useful, though she always found a way to antagonize him in the process of doing so.

“Exactly. And a text might seem too impersonal. After what he’s been through, the trauma he’s had to relive, I want to be careful with him.”

“Precious few people in his life are.” 

They both knew who he referred to.

Alana sighed. “I’m worried about him. If you get a hold of him, will you let me know?”

“Of course,” he responded, already on his way up the stairs. Mr. Peretti wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes. He ended the call after extracting a similar promise from her and then settled himself at his desk with TattleCrime on the screen. 

He read it through once, and then three more times while skipping the interruptions of Freddie’s self-contradictory and ham-handed analysis. How he would have liked to see Will’s face as he took the stand. Had his untruths come colored with embarrassment, as they did in Hannibal’s sitting room as he discussed Eldon Stammets in front of the fire? Or had he maintained the same cool candor with which he executed falsehoods not related to his erstwhile captor?

Something to chew on as he concluded his business with Mr. Peretti. 

No matter Alana’s urgings, Will would appreciate a little more time and space. And if he didn’t, that would serve Hannibal just as well.

The gate sat closed but unlocked when the Bentley pulled up to it. He drove through, got back out, and locked the gate behind his car. With that single click, the world beyond the fence ceased to exist; only he and Will remained. The two of them, alone. 

He faced the house, the one Will had compared to a boat at sea, from this new vantage point. Closer than he’d ever been, already.

The Bentley he parked beside Will’s Volvo. A moment to savor his anticipation, seated in his driver seat before exiting the car and pulling the two reusable grocery totes from the floor of the passenger seat, then shouldering the carryall bag in the backseat. He took one last fortifying breath of the fresh evening air.

_Seven dogs_.

Their greeting, though ebullient, reflected their excellent training. Prodding noses and wagging tails, but no jumping, no barking. They accepted his home-made jerky with delight, but control. Will sat perched on the edge of the living room couch, nearly catatonic, barely turning his head to acknowledge Hannibal’s arrival. Hannibal gave himself a moment to take in the state of the house: a superficial disorder, a light layer of dust and dog hair. In the habit of keeping it clean, though the habit had been broken recently. Cozy, homey, with a rustic charm. A lot could be said about the placement of the bed in the living room, but he’d leave ruminations on that subject for another time. 

Then he turned his eyes to Will. The most dressed down he’d ever been in Hannibal’s presence: white t-shirt and jeans, bare feet and no belt. Drenched in sweat, hair sticking out in every direction. Dressed down and vulnerable. Heat radiated off of him in waves, and still he shivered, staring blankly into the space before him.

This called for comfort. But some orders of business must come first. Hannibal carried his bags to the kitchen, unpacked the groceries, and washed the dishes piled high in the sink. He picked up the pile of clothing in the corner by the bed, smelling strongly of stale sweat and anxiety, and started a load in the washing machine. He then filled two glasses with water and brought them to the living room. The dogs, fed and contented, had settled down in their beds by the fireplace, and Will remained unmoving, except for the occasional fine tremor running down his back, the intermittent clatter of his teeth. 

Hannibal navigated around the dogs and lit a fire in the hearth—both for Will’s comfort, and as an incentive for the pack to settle where they lay. “You’ve had an unpleasant experience.”

“It wasn’t—” the words stopped coming as Hannibal’s hands draped a blanket over Will’s shoulders. One of his own, brought from home, chosen for its warm brown tones, which did indeed complement Will’s complexion and draw out the grey shades in his irises. Hannibal smoothed the fabric down Will’s back, then trailed his fingertips up to Will’s shoulder for another reassuring squeeze before releasing him entirely. 

Will’s fingers dug into the cashmere weave, momentarily distracted. He seemed ready to decline the gift for a moment, but in the next his resistance melted from him. The scent of vetiver with which Hannibal had spritzed it doing its work. 

“It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t unpleasant.”

The most he’d moved, the most he’d spoken since Hannibal arrived not twenty minutes before. 

“Testifying? Or the subject of your testimony?” 

Will shook his head. “Either,” he mumbled into the soft cashmere of Hannibal’s blanket. “Both.”

Hannibal’s anticipation coiled like a snake in his gut. Will looked up at him, the lower half of his face obscured, his eyes wide and luminous, vulnerable and trusting. Almost like a child. A rare gift, to see him this way, with the drawbridge to the palace of his mind lowered, beckoning him inside. And yet, behind that beguiling vulnerability, Hannibal perceived a sharpness, a wariness. Arrows pointing at him from the turrets as he crossed. All the more charming. 

He reached out and touched a hand to Will’s forehead. “Still warm.”

“I’m sorry.” Will ducked his head down, a pained expression painted on his face as though by Guido Reni’s brush when he painted Saint Sebastian. “For ignoring your calls. It was rude. Thoughtless.”

“What’s a little rudeness between friends?” Hannibal asked, unaccountably pleased. “Do you believe you can hold anything down, if I make you something to eat?”

“I can try,” the mumbled answer from underneath the blanket. 

Hannibal excused himself to the kitchen. Among the containers of fresh groceries and prepared meals, he located their dinner for the evening. Something light, gentle, to settle Will’s undoubtedly sour stomach. A matter of reheating it on the stove, during which time he cleared off and set the table. He helped Will off of the couch and ushered him with a hand on his lower back toward the kitchen. Will melted into his chair, Hannibal’s blanket still wrapped tightly around him, though he seemed to come alive again when Hannibal set their dinner down before him. 

“Silkie chicken broth,” Hannibal announced, “with red dates, wolfberries, bok choy and white fungi.”

“You made me chicken soup,” Will marveled. 

Hannibal briefly lamented the effort put into sourcing those ingredients; Will, apparently, would have been content with even the canned variety.

“…With more mushrooms.” Will offered a weak smile, though he did not hesitate to take his first bite. He sighed, the moment his lips closed around the spoon, and his eyelashes fluttered down in bliss. “Delicious, as always.”

That redeemed him. Hannibal knew at this point that Will appreciated quality when he experienced it; he would not have eaten a Campbell’s with this enthusiasm, this much relish.

They ate, the sounds of their eating blending into the white noise of the house. Though he enjoyed the tranquility, the monster within him writhed, once more uncharacteristically impatient. But he would wait. It would serve him best.

Halfway through the meal, Will broke the silence. “You, uh—you read Freddie’s article, I take it.”

Not a time to prevaricate. Will would see it as a fabrication, and his confidences would stop completely. “You’ve had a trying day,” he reiterated.

“Yeah,” he sighed, pushing his half-eaten bowl of soup away so he could lay his head on his forearms, now crossed over the table. “But maybe not in the way you’d think.” When he turned his head to face Hannibal’s direction, his eyes had a glassy, absent quality; turned so far inward that silence would not induce him to speak, merely allow him to draw further into himself. 

So Hannibal prompted him. “Tell me.”

A long sigh released Will from his stillness, and he straightened before slumping back into his chair. “Too late to invoke doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Hannibal chuckled, in part amused that Will believed he would report their conversations to _anybody_, and in part from affection inspired by Will’s wariness despite his desire to give in. Though this little laughter seemed to calm Will’s anxiety, his own tension grew with each second that passed, excitement thrumming in his veins. “Even without it, you know whatever you say to me will remain in confidence.”

Will nodded, though he continued to weigh the merit of speaking further. “Not much perturbs you.”

“Are you worried this will?”

“Maybe,” he said, his lips curling for a moment before his expression grew pensive once more. 

“I assure you nothing you say will shock me,” Hannibal murmured. He reached a hand out and touched Will’s arm, “or that if it does, it will not change my relationship with you.”

A long blink before his confession came, words too drawn out, spoken to the room at large, eyes unfocused on the middle distance. “I may… be guilty of perjury.” Tentative.

Hannibal waited. 

Now that Will had come out of his stupor, their habit of trading silences for explanations seemed to take hold. “The majority of my testimony—” he swallowed, sitting up a little and raising his eyes to Hannibal’s lips—“may have been a lie.” He sucked in a breath, the way one does when preparing to speak, though it seeped from him, deflating him, as his brows scrunched up in confusion. 

“You’re uncertain where to begin?”

“Yeah.”

“It may be easier to start with the kernels of truth.”

Will nodded; his eyes fell to the knot of Hannibal’s tie, and then skittered off into abstraction, somewhere over Hannibal’s shoulder. “Eldon kidnapped me,” he said. “I had post-concussive syndrome, and he looked after me.” He paused. “When he saw the news about the FBI coming for him, he medicated me against my consent.” His lips parted, as though he planned to say more, but they closed again, in concert with the movement of his eyes back to Hannibal’s face. 

“He did not keep you sedated throughout your stay.”

“No.”

Hannibal nodded. “He spoke with you often,” he surmised, and Will returned the nod. “He did not tell you he had a garden?”

“No—he did. The first day.” Will said. He licked his lips, and his eyes moved up, up—until at long last, they met Hannibal’s.

“But I already knew.”

Even in their recent, increasingly more personal conversations, Will rarely looked him in the eye. To be the subject of his complete focus, so incendiary in its intensity… 

“You knew,” Hannibal repeated, reorienting himself to the subject at hand. “You had been there before.”

The tension seemed to drain from Will’s shoulders, though some wariness remained in the stiffness of his posture. “You asked why Eldon picked me,” he said. “I stumbled on his garden in the summer. Was out with my dogs, you know, and they stopped to smell the—the mushrooms.”

Hannibal nodded along, making connections as Will spoke. “Stammets observed you in his garden. He found your reaction,” he licked his lips, “favorable.”

Fingers clasped together on his lap, Wil’s chin dipped in confirmation.

“You didn’t try to escape.”

“No. Well—technically I _did_ escape. Twice. But I—” he sucked in a breath and blew out slowly, shoving his hands deep into his curls and gripping until his knuckles turned white. “But I ended up going back.”

_And on your own power. _

Will looked up at him again, at once suspicious and hopeful. “You said I imprint on these killers, asked how deep their imprint goes. But that’s not quite it.” He swallowed audibly, reached a trembling hand for his water, and then clutched it in his fingers without drinking it. “They cast a shadow in my mind, one that moves the way they do. But it becomes—autonomous, almost. When I see it move, my mind contorts itself to try to match its movements. And I fatigue.” At last he took a sip, and his lips glistened in the lamplight when they came back into view. “Sometimes quickly, if their movements are too different, too hard to maintain. Lenny Marron. Abel Gideon. Elliot Budish. But Eldon…” 

_He alone is different. You see yourself in him_. But he said nothing: Will’s urge to unburden himself felt as tenuous as a spider’s web. If Hannibal were to reach for him, to speak, or move, or _breathe_, it would dissolve before him.

“Eldon’s shadow might be the closest fit so far,” Will finished at last. He set the glass back on the table, trailed his fingers through the condensation on the side. “Whatever that says about me.” 

Hannibal tilted his head. He recognized the trap for what it was. And yet Will had chosen some tempting bait—very difficult to resist. Were they in his office, he might get away with a little psychoanalysis. He might be able to excuse it as habit. But not here, not in Will’s house. 

For all that Will’s disclosures gave him permission to accelerate his plans, in this moment, he felt no need to rush. “I am hardly in a position to pass judgment,” he murmured. 

Will snorted. He picked up his spoon, studied it for a moment before putting it back down into the bowl. “Thank you for the soup. I don’t think I can eat any more.”

A cue he took immediately. He tipped his head in acknowledgment of the thanks, and then stood to gather the plates, store the leftovers, and wash the dishes. He very much doubted Will let others help themselves to his kitchen in this way; not out of pride in hospitality, perhaps, but as a side-effect of his hermeticism, an absence of close confidants who would take this liberty. But the ease with which Will let Hannibal care for him in Hannibal’s own kitchen had carried over here. Will’s presence at the table behind him, a warm constant, summoned a smile to Hannibal’s lips. He took his time cleaning up, hand-drying the plates and glasses, storing them into their homes in Will’s cabinets.

When he turned around again, Will’s head had taken its place back atop his crossed forearms, his back slumped over the table. A moment’s debate before he headed over to the dresser in the front of the bedroom, opened first one drawer and then another until he found a neatly folded white shirt and a clean pair of sweatpants. He pulled them from the drawers and carried them over to Will. 

A firm grip on Will’s shoulder made him raise his head, eyes unfocused, hazy. “Hmm?”

“A change of clothes,” Hannibal said. “And then bed. But drink your water first, please.” 

Will nodded, rubbed his right hand against his eyes, and reached for his water with his left. He chugged the contents of the glass, which Hannibal took from his hands directly and carried over to the kitchen to wash, dry, and store, giving Will a moment of privacy. Finished, he turned around to the sight of the cashmere blanket folded and taking up Will’s seat at the table, and Will in the bedroom, only half-changed.

Sweatpants low on his hips, fingers tugging his soaked-through t-shirt over his head; Hannibal drank in the sight of Will’s bare torso in a three-quarter profile. Slender. Too slender, even, with the knobs of his spine and the jut of his hips in prominence. There—the barest edges of an ugly scar on the front of his shoulder, gone again when he turned. 

Will unfolded his white shirt and pulled it over his head. A last fleeting glimpse of a mole along his spine, over his sacrum, before soft white cotton concealed it from view. Hannibal trailed invisible fingers up over the shirt, through the curls clinging to the nape of Will’s neck, the tousled spirals poking out in charming disarray.

His feet propelled him to Will’s side, the tide to the moon. Will had already slid between the sheets by the time Hannibal caught up to him. A vulnerability shone in his wide blue eyes, made a murky green with the yellow lamplight reflecting in them. 

“May I?”

“Mm.” Will scooted a little further from the edge, giving Hannibal room to settle himself beside him on the mattress. 

The dogs, still in front of the flickering fire, had fallen asleep, the faint sound of their breathing—and Beau’s snuffling—a pleasant, domestic backdrop. Hannibal reached forward and pressed the inside of his wrist to Will’s brow. “Your temperature has come down somewhat.”

“I _am _feeling better.”

“The secrets we bury inside of us can fester,” he said simply, withdrawing his wrist. “Unburdening ourselves can cleanse that rot. Purge the toxins.”

“It’s not really something I’ve ever been able to talk about,” Will groused, though some color had eased the pallor of his cheeks. 

“Have I not set your mind at ease on that score?” His fingers itched to sweep the curls from Will’s temples, but he kept them still in his lap.

“You have.” Will’s voice came out, almost a whisper, as though sharing yet another secret. He sighed, then turned his face away. He wrung his hands over his white cotton-covered belly, before laying them rigidly across it. A defensive posture, protecting his innards. “There’s more to tell, of course.”

“Of course.” He paused. “I won’t press you,” he assured—not now, though he would eventually, “but know that I am always available to you, when the urge to unburden yourself presents.”

A huff of laughter. They fell into that familiar, comfortable silence that so often manifested between them. A thoughtful quiet, a pleasantly buzzing tension. 

“If I may—” Hannibal started, surprising them both; Will’s eyes darted back up to his face, his brows popping upward. Hannibal usually left it to Will to break their silences. This time, the question bullied its way from between his lips. A loss of control that would normally appall him, but made no more than a footnote for him to meditate on later.

“You may,” Will teased when Hannibal’s abrupt silence went on too long. 

“Among the kernels of truth that you listed,” Hannibal began tentatively, but grew more confident as he spoke, “you did not include your denial of forgiveness.”

Will’s expression smoothed, almost entirely blank for a split second before a wry grin parted his lips. “The most dangerous person is the one who listens, thinks, and observes,” he quoted.

Hannibal tilted his head, running those words through his memory, trying to place their origin. The closest he came was Nietzsche, and that did not come close at all. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize that quotation.”

“What, never heard of Bruce Lee?” The lines around Will’s eyes crinkled, and never before had Hannibal been so charmed by someone laughing at him. A pause for the humor to subside, before he answered at last. “Really have to watch my words around you.” He sighed. “Forgiveness… It’s a little complicated.”

“The apparent complexity of a matter is often a function of the perspective through which we view it.”

Will’s hands, no longer rigid where they lay, rose to run through his hair, tousling it into a halo of curls against his pillow. “You might have heard I have this problem with perspective-taking,” he teased. 

“Does the problem arise from discerning between yours and Stammets’ perspective, or from forgiveness posing a complication from either lens?” Hannibal wondered aloud. 

Will shook his head and skirted the question. “I want to tell you about it,” he conceded. “But it’s a long story, and I—” a long outbreath—“I don’t have the energy right now.”

“Well,” Hannibal said, reaching for the edge of the sheets where they lay crumpled over Will’s hips. “In that case, I would suggest getting some rest.” He pulled the worn-out cotton sateen up to Will’s chin, a distantly familiar movement that mired him in nostalgia. 

“You’re tucking me in?”

The visions of the past—Mischa in her little white nightgown, begging for a story—dissolved. He blinked and offered Will a conspiratorial smile. “Tucking in wards away nightmares, or so I’m told.”

Will’s teasing demeanor changed, now vacillating between sympathy and self-flagellation. “Your sister…?”

Punishing himself for raising a painful subject? _Have I been so transparent? _The wound Mischa’s death left in his soul would never heal; and yet the joy she brought him in life seemed brighter each time his thoughts turned those memories over. “I used to tuck her in at night,” he recalled, his mind worlds away, opening the door to her childhood bedroom. “It never seemed to take her as long to bed down for our mother. But _you_ won’t ask me for a bedtime story, I’m certain.”

“I—” Will’s eyes flitted up to Hannibal’s face and then immediately away. His voice sounded pained, creaking as though resisting the words, “I dreamed about her.”

Breath and heartbeat, in synchrony, stuttered in his chest. He blinked, and function resumed, though they may as well not have. “Did you?”

“She took Chris O’Halloran’s place,” Will said. His fingers came out from under the sheets, curling around the fabric, gripping it as though it might fly off any moment. “And I took Eva’s.” Once more, a brief flash of eye-contact before it disappeared. “And you—”

Never mind the sheets—those hands instead gripped a knife, twisting it cruelly into Hannibal’s gut. 

“I killed you.”

This admission seemed to cost Will more than the admission of his crime. He seemed to vibrate with tension, now that this secret had been released into the air between them. His voice begged for comfort, for understanding. 

Never mind the trial; _here_ lay the reason for Will’s avoidance. 

“Nothing more than a dream,” Hannibal offered in return.

“I _killed _you, Doctor Lecter. And I—” he licked his parched lips, eyes boring into Hannibal’s. “And I liked it.”

Hannibal’s skin vibrated; the air between them grew magnetized, drawing him closer.

_I killed you, Doctor Lecter. And I liked it._

“You can hardly feel responsible for the content of your dreams, Will.” He watched for any minute change in Will’s expression, honing in on the twitch of his lips before adding, “Unless your pleasure in my death came after waking?”

Will said nothing to that, though his brows ducked slightly lower. Thoughtful, or frustrated?

He smoothed a hand over the cover, felt the rabbiting beat of Will’s heart as his fingers skimmed above it. “How did you do it?” he asked, his voice straining the way Will’s had during his admission.

“I—” he stopped to lick his lips, and then laboriously raise his eyes to meet Hannibal’s unwavering stare.

One inhalation. One exhalation. 

Color flooded Will’s cheeks. When he spoke again, he lost his timidity, his anxiety, his regret. “With my hands.”

_Intimate. _

“Kant referred to hands as the visible part of the brain,” Hannibal mused, voice steady again, betraying none of his excitement. “Aristotle called them the tool of tools, and still others have referred to them as the cutting edge of the mind. And yet your tool of preference has always been your superior perception.” 

The brows that furrowed so slightly before had climbed progressively higher on Will’s face throughout the duration of this speech. Charming in his disbelief. “So you think—what—I’m frustrated by the fact that there’s more to you than meets the eye? And delighting in a sense of figuring you out at last?”

Hannibal felt flooded by affection. His hand twitched at his side, still pulsing with the memory of Will’s heartbeat, wanting to reach out and touch him again. “Have you been struggling to figure me out, Will?”

His reply came in the form of a snort, though a good-natured smile followed on its heels. “Why I don’t like psychiatrists.” A warm pause, during which the corners of his lips fell, returning to their previous, pensive expression. “I killed you in Eva’s skin,” he said. “I felt her elation. I felt Eldon’s too when we—” he cut himself off, body spasming as though startled, eyes darting to Hannibal’s as though expecting for Hannibal to rebuke him, or to never speak to him again. 

Will in torment presented a beguiling image, blushing pink-cheeked, those delightful lashes fluttering open over wide blue eyes, his parted lips bright from blood-flow where his teeth had worried into them. Yet again Will’s exquisite suffering, brought the visage of Saint Sebastian to mind.

Hannibal took it all in, excitement reaching a higher plane, approaching a soul-deep serenity. At that moment, Hannibal’s world seemed to shift on its axis, for the second time since he had met Will Graham. His previous plans needed adjustment; his mind tumbled at speed down unexplored possibilities, dark trails through the puzzle of Will Graham’s mind. But he couldn't take his time to recalibrate. Not when Will stared at him, so patently desperate for some kind of reaction. 

“Did you help Eldon inter one of his victims, Will?”

Will’s eyes, already round, widened even further. “Not much perturbs you,” he croaked.

A confession in and of itself, and such a confession deserved a reward. 

“Did you expect that this would?” he asked, leaning forward slightly to sweep an errant curl from Will’s temple, pausing to appreciate its soft texture, the way it seemed to coil itself around his finger, begging for a caress. “Expectation breeds disappointment.”

Will’s lips moved as though to form a reply and then closed again. He swallowed. “That’s a, um—” his voice, a wobbly, watery thing, broke, “a conversation for another time.”

Deferred yet again, but Will must know that his resistance would not hold out much longer—that he would give in, that he _wanted _to give in. His fingers tangled deeper into the curls at Will’s temple, nails and finger pads gently pressing against the skull that housed such an irresistible mind. How long would it take him to wear through the bone, to create a window through which he could see all of Will’s secrets for himself?

And Will, so trusting, inclined his tousled head ever so slightly into Hannibal’s palm.

Hannibal huffed his amusement, bone-deep contentment making him benevolent. “Of course.” 

_And that’s a promise I intend for you to keep, Will. _

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, when I said “regularly scheduled updates,” I meant, with one exception. I will be taking an extra week to get out the next chapter. Three in a row was too much! Next update planned for 8/13!
> 
> **A Consequence of Consumption now has a podfic! You can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25485073/chapters/61821037 **
> 
> Also, you should come join our discord server! If you're a legal adult!  
https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB <-- there's your invite.  
Last week we discussed whether Hannibal would make his own lube, and if so, would he make it from people, and if so, what parts of the people? We also share fic recs and memes, and I also share my chapter outlines as I post them, and previews of upcoming chapters there.  
Even more fun, **we’re gearing up to do an interactive story (like a choose your own adventure, starting July 30!) over there, which I’ll post on ao3 when we get to the end.** Join us, vote on the story, and let’s see where it takes us!
> 
> Thank you for reading as always!


	24. Interlude: And Then.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another step back.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-Four

Interlude:

And Then.

-+-

The next morning, around nine, Eldon ushered him from his room to the dining table, before ducking back into the kitchen. He bustled around with the breakfast preparations as Will marveled over the full set of utensils, knife included, laid out at each place setting. He only acknowledged Will again when he settled on one of the stools by the pass-through; then, Eldon set two steaming mugs of coffee and two glasses of orange juice on the counter for him to take to the table. 

“Not omelets again?” Will leaned against the counter and peered into the kitchen. _No mushrooms for breakfast?_

“Oatmeal, for variety,” Eldon answered, and his voice sounded much less taut than it had last night. 

_‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been there._’

Once those words left Will’s mouth, a stunned silence followed. Eldon seemed on the verge of saying something back to that, and Will, wanting to give him the chance to say it, left the floor open for him. But Eldon remained seated, motionless outside of raising and lowering his fork. His expression turned so far inward that Will couldn’t read it, and he said nothing at all for the rest of the meal. Said nothing at all until he walked Will back to his room to lock him away for the night. 

_‘Good night.’_ His voice had sounded so strained, torn between a desperate hope and a shuddering disbelief. 

But now, limbs loose, he moved around the kitchen with ease rather than tension: he hummed a ditty under his breath, looked at Will directly every so often, a ghost of a smile hovering on the edges of his lips. He must have come to some kind of decision overnight. 

“Sleep well?” Will asked. 

“I did,” Eldon answered, stepping into the dining room, a tray in his hands. Two bowls of oatmeal, a few strips of bacon, toast, a half papaya divided between two small plates. “I know the mattress in your room isn’t the best.”

“I slept all right, actually.” A surprising truth. His sleep since his abduction had been fretful, sweaty, nightmare-ridden and not nearly restful enough. But last night, he’d barely moved, had slept cool, and awakened more refreshed than he had in weeks. “Are you going to work again today?” 

“Not for a couple of days,” Eldon said. “I’m thinking of finding coverage for my next few shifts.”

“I wouldn’t,” Will said. “You’re not the type to call out.” Eldon’s lips quirked, but he said nothing. A little more coaxing, then. “Might raise some suspicion.”

Eldon picked up a piece of bacon between his fingers and dropped it on his plate. He seemed unbothered by Will’s balancing act as part captive, part coconspirator. Took it in stride. “Suspicion about what?”

Will had to concede that point. Eldon’s absence from work wouldn’t induce the discovery of his garden, and as for Will… well, Will didn’t exactly have a _social_ life. His mechanical repair business had its clientele, some of whom would expect to hear from him. But though missing the return date on Mr. Montese’s boat motor would annoy the man, or Mrs. Bally if he neglected her microwave, neither would report him missing if he didn’t get back to them. They were more likely to leave him a negative review if they got really frustrated than worry after his well-being. 

Still, the possibility remained that someone had heard or seen what happened with him and Eldon in the pharmacy parking lot. 

“Just a thought,” Will said, instead. He picked a slice of toast from the dish on the center of the table and dropped it onto his plate, locking eyes with Eldon as his fingers hovered over the knife on his placemat. Neither of them spoke, but a slow smile spread over Eldon’s face, showing teeth, when Will opted for his spoon instead. He started his breakfast with a bite of his oatmeal. _Least he got the texture on this one right. Much _better prepared than the risotto. Eldon must have wanted to celebrate with that dinner, for all that it turned out barely edible. “So, what are we going to do, then? You’re not planning on locking me up in my room.” 

“I’m not,” Eldon agreed, though he waited a few minutes before adding to that thought. He finished his mouthful of oatmeal, chased it with a bite of papaya and a sip of coffee. “Do you play Go?”

Black and white disc-shaped pieces, a large board of intersecting lines with certain points marked off. “I’ve heard of it,” Will said, checking through his mental filing cabinets to see if he knew anything about the game aside from its appearance. “It’s about capturing territory, right?”

“I thought we might play today. I can teach you. The rules are simple, easy to learn.”

“The strategy isn’t, I’m sure.” 

Eldon gave a vague smile. 

They lingered over breakfast. Eldon brought them refills on their coffee, which he set down in front of Will with an awkward smile. An unfamiliar indulgence for him, the refill. _And the company._ Will had no problem indulging him. 

They made it halfway down the hall, back to Will’s room, before Eldon paused. A hitch in his step, coupled with a bashful look up at Will. Force of habit had led to this escort, then. He followed Will the rest of the way to the bedroom, announcing his intent to clean and come back for Will once he’d set the game up in the living room. The door latch shut behind him. _But it didn’t lock_. 

For a moment, the prospect of stepping back outside into the hall tempted him. Whatever decision Eldon had reached overnight, he had opened up this morning. More talkative, more interested in interacting. In sharing space. Like a resurrection plant, he had been curled in on himself, dried out like a husk, for all appearances dead. A gentle watering of acknowledgement had been all it took to turn his browned foliage green, to coax it to unfurl. 

Why threaten that? 

So instead, Will made his bed and laid on it to wait until Eldon summoned him. Not a long wait—only enough time to run through their conversations 

“Can I get another change of clothes?” he asked, when at length, the door handle depressed and Eldon pushed it open. 

“I brought you some this morning,” Eldon answered. He must have gone to Wolf Trap rather early then. “I’ll get them for you after lunch.”

At a first glance, like the rest of Eldon’s house, the living room boasted a sparse aesthetic. Only the necessities: a sun-worn three-seater couch—the cushions still seemed plump, almost new; rarely used, then—a coffee table, a television on a stand. Not a tchotchke, a painting, or a book in sight. _One of the rooms along the hallway_, Will decided. _He keeps his books in a reading room or an office. _It suited his perception of the man to a tee.

_Structured to death. No wonder he branched out into murder._

On the glass top of the coffee table sat the board game, along with two wooden bowls, with black and white pieces respectively, on either side of the board. Eldon had pulled the coffee table away from the couch, moved to accommodate two solid-colored throw pillows, which marked their seats. 

Will looked at the cushion between the table and the TV, and his knees protested in anticipation. 

Eldon ushered Will to sit on the couch side—_something to lean against, at least—_before lowering himself on the cushion opposite him. 

The board made an impressive sight, constructed from two slices of bonded wood at least three inches thick, square-shaped on top. Lines, nineteen down and nineteen across, spaced about an inch apart, created a grid over the surface. There were dots connected by these intersecting lines; some dots, forming the points of a square around the periphery of the board, were painted larger, darker. 

Will reached for one of the black pieces in the bowl to his right. Smooth. Glass. Pleasantly heavy. 

“Black goes first,” Eldon said, “and we take turns placing stones on the empty points—on the intersections.” He plucked the stone from Will’s fingers and put it down, to the left of one of the darker dots on the board. “The pieces don’t move. But they can be captured, if the opponent blocks all the surrounding points.” He placed a white stone on each of the four intersections adjacent to the black piece and then plucked it from the center. “Once captured, they’re removed from the board and kept as prisoners.” 

Prisoners. Will snorted; Eldon glared. 

The stone made a pleasant clattering sound when he dropped it in the upturned lid of his wooden bowl, on his side of the table. “You can pass whenever you want. If we both pass, that’s the end of the game. The winner is determined by counting the empty points in their territory—the number of points their pieces control—and the total number of captured tokens.”

“That’s it?” Will asked, eyes on Eldon’s hand as he pulled his single prisoner from his bowl and returned it to Will’s.

“That’s it,” Eldon said, that vague smile on his lips again. “We’ll start with a smaller board. Give you a chance to learn.” He pointed at the darkened dots. “This is the perimeter. Play inside of it.”

The first game, predictably, presented no challenge for Eldon. He played with confidence, not catering to Will’s inexperience in the least. As a concept, ‘going easy’ probably escaped him.

But Will caught on quickly. 

A good strategy began abstract, suggestive. Rather than fencing off portions of the board, it proved more effective to place pieces at strategic distances, and reinforce the connections between them when the enemy came knocking. Rather than focusing on the capture of individual tokens, each with the same value as another, to focus on the conquering of the territory they inhabited instead. He learned to keep track of the free spaces—liberties—around each, so as not to lose them to careless capture. When to back off of a battle for territory that would prove fruitless, to direct his attention to the battles where he had a stronger chance of winning. 

The second game found Eldon pausing to consider his moves before playing them. Halfway through, he got up and grabbed them each a beer from the kitchen. A reward for improvement, Will supposed, though it didn’t make much of a reward: another light beer, watery and flavorless, and smelling like a frat house the day after a party. Will lost spectacularly again, though he still thrummed with excitement when they cleared the board to start the third round.

Evening painted the sky a grey-lavender hue, and the room grew dimmer. None of the lights inside the house were on. Will squinted in the waning light, knowing already that he had lost the third round in a row, but not in the least frustrated about it. “Chess asks you to solve one problem. Corner the king,” he mused. “A specific problem with myriad solutions.”

He leaned back against the couch, beer at his lips, eyes on Eldon’s face where his brow creased in concentration. 

“Go forces you to decide which problems need solving to begin with.”

A flash of an appreciative smile on Eldon’s face before he moved. 

_My turn. _Will glanced at the board. No matter how he played, Eldon’s positioning on the board made him a clear winner. No point in playing through to the end-game, with the verdict already so clear. “Pass,” he decided, yielding at last. 

“You’re getting better at seeing when you’ve lost,” Eldon commented, pleased, and accepted his forfeit by clearing the board. 

Will breathed in deep, held the air in his chest before letting it out from between his teeth. “Is that what all this is about?” Will asked. “Asking me to choose my battles? Showing me I’ve already lost?”

Eldon sorted the black pieces off the board first, dropping them a few at a time into Will’s bowl, now in the center of the board. He didn’t answer immediately. “I just like to play,” he said at length, eyes flicking up to Will’s. Their eyes met, but neither of them yielded. Neither of them looked away. 

His eyes were a glass-like, watery blue, but they opened up to reveal the cavernous inside of his soul. Gnashing, ravenous. Deeply, deeply alone, and yearning for—no, _craving_—for someone to bridge the darkness within him. Someone to connect with. 

Eldon may not fully know what to do with Will, now that he had him. For all that he’d toyed with the idea long enough to set up a room for him, he abducted Will without a specific design in mind. _Connection._ But how? 

Will had his own ideas of how he wanted this to proceed. He might be new at Go, but he and Eldon had already started their game long before they sat down at the board. 

“I’d like you to give me back my glasses, please,” Will said, dragging himself out of the bottomless pits of Eldon’s irises. 

“You don’t need them,” Eldon countered. “They’re plain glass.”

“I’d like them.” 

Eldon considered. “All right.”

“I’d also like my phone. Or access to email. Supervised, if you like. I have some clients that are expecting me to get in touch.”

Humor lurked in the lines around Eldon’s lips as he tilted his head to regard his captive. “Anything else?”

Will laughed a little, setting his bottle down on the table. “Something to drink that’s not a _light _beer?”

But even though the beverages provided at dinner were more of the same, when Will returned to his room for the night and the door shut behind him, only the sound of fading footsteps followed, once more absent the clicking of the lock.

The mirror, when Will stepped out of the shower in the morning, had fogged over so thickly that his reflection became a mere suggestion of a person, a fleeting impression of his presence in the room. With his hand-towel, he wiped the fog from the mirror, to study his reflection. _So invested in Eldon_, he mused, fingertips tracing the contour of his left cheek, _that seeing your own face surprises you._ He walked out into the bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist, to find Eldon putting clothing, neatly stacked, into the drawers of his bedside table. He’d already stored socks, white undershirts, and boxers in multiples inside it.

“Oh, thanks,” Will said, holding his towel up with one hand and reaching for the pair of boxers on the top of the stack. Eldon’s body jerked a little—a startled kind of jump—as Will leaned past him for the clothing. Will picked a shirt next, and then walked around to the foot of the bed, where a few of his plaid button-ups and two pairs of jeans draped over the footboard. 

He felt Eldon’s eyes trailing him back to the bathroom and wondered if he’d made him uncomfortable, getting into his space. For all that Eldon seemed to seek his company more today, they had kept a fairly consistent distance from one another. The closest contact they had came when Eldon cudgeled him over the head into unconsciousness. And then, maybe, when he’d taken Will’s coat and shoes off and treated the bump on his head; but Will had been drifting in the darkness then. He didn’t remember it at all. 

He dressed in the bathroom. An uncomfortable affair: the air inside still too humid, his skin still a little damp from the shower, even though he’d toweled off. He gave up putting on socks until he’d had some time to dry off the rest of the way, and wriggled into his jeans as though they were a size too small. 

Eldon had left the bedroom by the time Will got out; the clothing all put away, the door wide open. The smell of breakfast came through from the other room. Will ambled through the house, familiar with this corridor by now, trailing his hands on the door handles as he passed, debating whether to take a peek inside. 

Instead, he followed his nose toward the smell. 

Pancakes. 

Eldon paused when Will entered the kitchen—without invitation, invading Eldon’s space yet again—but said nothing to dissuade him. He didn’t seem to mind Will testing the waters. Will peeked at the stove from a distance, then walked over to the fridge. A smile bloomed on his lips at the sight of some dark brown glass bottles in front of the dwindling number of light beers in that pocket of the door. “Do you need a hand with anything?” Will asked, poking around the fridge for the butter dish that usually came to the table too cold to be easily spreadable. 

Eldon turned this time. He glanced at Will’s bare toes once, then twice, before shaking his head in answer to Will’s question and getting back to the pancakes. 

Will leaned against the kitchen counter, eyeing the knife block within arm’s reach. Two days ago, Will would have salivated at the opportunity to pluck a blade from it—whether to pocket it for later, or to plunge it in the middle of Stammets’ back so he could make his escape. He’d changed his mind about escape, but flirted with the idea regardless, touching a fingertip to the handle of one knife when Eldon turned to watch him, then reaching up to the microwave to pop the butter dish in. 

Thirty seconds on the ‘soften’ setting, and he carried the dish out to the table. “Where do you keep your syrup?” he called. 

“Fridge.”

Will buried a groan. He found a bottle of maple syrup behind a container of sour cream, its contents crystalized in the bottle, and walked it over to the sink to run warm water over it. This little dance around each other, clocking one another’s whereabouts, keeping an eye on each other’s moves, had the same charge to it that their pieces on the Go board did—yielding and seizing territory. And yet, this silent battle came with a paradoxical ease. 

Not a battle, but a negotiation. Less captor, more coconspirator. 

When Eldon set the stack of pancakes down on the table, he set Will’s eyeglasses down beside them. Will favored him with a pleased smile, unfolding the legs, giving the non-prescription glass a cursory wipe, and then putting them on. 

The world became clearer, more focused, even though his vision remained the same. 

“This looks good,” Will said, taking a few off the top of the stack to butter on his own plate.

The rest of the meal passed in a serene silence. They cleaned up in the quiet, Will drying dishes as Eldon washed them. When Eldon left the kitchen, Will trailed behind him. They ended up in the living room again, the Go board between them.

“Another game?” Will asked. 

Another two, but played using the whole board, and completed in the time it took to finish all four rounds the day before. A good marker of Will’s progress. 

At the end of the second, Will stood and ambled over to the kitchen, grabbed two bottles of beer—Belgian Trappist imports, the _good stuff_—and brought them back to the living room. He pointed over toward the porch, a question in the tilt of his head, but Eldon patted the cushion beside him instead. Will handed him the other beer, then took his seat on the opposite end of the couch. 

“I saw you there,” Eldon said, after a long pull from his bottle. 

Will filtered through their many conversations for the last one in which they’d discussed a _location_: it took him only a moment before he found it. _Oh, yeah. I’ve been there_. His mind supplied him with verdant greens, rich, deep browns. The humid scent of petrichor in the air. “Only went once,” he answered. “Amazing timing.”

“I recognized you,” Eldon said, eyeing Will over the edge of his beer. “You’d just come in to pick up some prescriptions for your dogs a few days before, so I recognized you right away.”

Outside of the context of teaching him the game, Eldon rarely spoke in such long sentences, strung so many words together. Will sucked in a breath, his own bottle lowering to his lap, fingers clutching tightly around the sweating glass. Silence settled between them again. He could almost hear the breeze shuffling through the leaves above him. His fingers curled against the couch cushion, expecting that rich earth rather than the smooth weave of the cotton cover.

Eldon leaned in, as though about to divulge some great secret. His voice, still resonant, lowered in pitch, becoming a little more sibilant. Hypnotic, enhancing the magic that enveloped Will the moment he recalled the mushroom plot. “I saw you in my little garden, the way you caressed my mushrooms, touched the hand closest to you… I could have killed you, then.”

“What stopped you?” Will asked, that same breath still captive in his chest, eyes rapt on Eldon’s, seeing past the blue and remembering the hazy grey of the cloud-covered sky that day in summer.

“I heard you speak. It felt like the whole forest went quiet just to listen. And once you were finished, I couldn’t kill you anymore.” He leaned back then, and the spell broke—or, rather, it faded. The warping colors of the room bled back into their neutral hues.

After a sip of his beer, Eldon continued. “You don’t need those glasses, Will.”

A familiarity Eldon rarely allowed; and the way he said it, the way the name slipped from Eldon’s tongue, made Will’s throat squeeze tight to convulse around a swallow. 

“I see well enough already?” he asked, a bitter irony in his voice. He reached up with his right hand and scrubbed at his eyes, one at a time, before tangling it in the hair at the nape of his neck. A firm tug at his roots to ground himself. 

Neither of them spoke. Eldon’s eyes fixed on Will, contemplative. But again, instead of looking away immediately, the way he usually did when their eyes met, Eldon stared on. The thoughtfulness in his expression morphed, softened. He looked for a moment like a man beholding something wondrous. Rapt. Full of awe. 

He swallowed again.

Eldon still stared. ‘Awe’ described it perfectly. 

He thought back to the way Lenny’s coal-black eyes leered at him, years ago now; the way his body weight had settled over him, the way his calloused, rough hands had gripped his jaw, patted his cheek. Not awe back then. 

“Do you want to know what I saw when I found your garden?”

Eldon blinked languidly, as though the beer had made him fuzzy, though the sharpness remained in his eyes. “You said I was lonely.”

The condensation dripped down the bottle, pooling on the fabric of his jeans. Will wiped it down his leg absently, then tilted his head to study Eldon. He let his eyes drift closed again, summoning the memory of the soft, turned earth, its warm musky smell. “It’s a beautiful garden,” Will said, again recalling the dappled lighting filtering through to the forest floor, the soft but vibrant flora. “An accessible location, if you know where to look. Too easy to stumble upon, though.”

Eldon grunted, lips ticking down, eyes falling to his knuckles, now paled from his grip on his bottle.

“Someone else is going to find it.” He kept the words light but insistent. He licked his lips, softening his expression and gentling his tone when he spoke again. “And, Eldon…” He had thought the name often enough, but had yet to say it aloud. It came out with surprising ease. Fit naturally onto his tongue. “It won’t be by someone like us.” 

Eldon’s shoulders, rising with tension during the beginning of this speech, froze in their upward climb. His eyes snapped up, jaw a little slack as he repeated, “Us?”

But Will ignored the question, letting his eyes slip closed again. “Shallow graves. Dirty tubing, dirt under the tape holding down the IV. No care for the bodies, but...” He sank into his corner of the couch, letting himself fall lax, another body in a grave. “But so much care for your crop.”

He could feel the velvet softness of the mushrooms under his fingertips, a brief touch that left a lingering sensation, a deep imprint on his skin. 

Eldon remained quiet.

Will continued. “Fastidiousness, attention to detail. Perfectly square corners in those graves. Pride in one’s work.” A pause. “I said you were lonely, but those weren’t the right words. At the time, I saw a man that could live his life without any need for human company. Someone who existed apart. Who saw the fleeting connections others made, then looked at his mushrooms and knew those connections to be false.” 

Will opened his eyes, though his sight remained trained on the memory of the garden. 

“Someone who understood _true _connection and wanted to cultivate it for himself.”

“I_ did_ cultivate them,” Eldon answered, tone defensive but faltering. He knew better, now.

But Will pressed forward as though Eldon hadn’t spoken. “Someone who _wants_ connection, still,” he said, moving his focus away from Eldon’s chin to look him in the eye.

Again, they stared. Will recognized that Eldon had gotten lost in Will’s words, in his gaze; the way Will so often did when their eyes met. But at length, his lower lip wobbling, Eldon spoke again. 

“I found it,” his voice, so thick with emotion, nearly _warbled_. “I’ve found it,” he repeated, voice cracking. And then he got up, stumbling over his own feet as he fled down the hall. 

Eldon retired to his bedroom, and, as far as Will could tell, remained there for the rest of the day, not even serving dinner that night. Will remained unshackled. A few hours after sundown, he paused outside of Eldon’s bedroom door—identified by the light streaming out from the crack beneath it—and listened. Nothing.

He leaned his back against the door and blew a puff of air up through his eyelashes. _Free to roam, I guess. _He could explore the house or even venture beyond it. Take the car keys, tempting him from their hook by the front door, and drive himself home.

Instead, he made himself a ham sandwich and found a soda to go with it. He tidied up the kitchen after himself before wandering into the living room. The Go board still sat on the coffee table. Idle fingers traced a circle around the lid on the bowl of black stones, then plucked it off and pulled one token from inside. 

He placed the piece on the board, trailing a path over the wood before replacing the lid on the bowl. Another long look at the board, weighing the different moves Eldon might make in answer, before he ambled back to his room, to spend the night re-reading The Log of a Cowboy until he drifted off to sleep.

Eldon woke him in the middle of the night. “Will,” he hissed the name into the darkness, crouching beside the bed. He did not reach out to touch—he never did—even though it would accomplish his goal faster. Will turned over on his mattress to face him. Their eyes were level, a soft yellow glow from the hallway silhouetting Eldon’s body. Back-lit yet again, though he wouldn’t be beating Will to unconsciousness this time. 

“Eldon?” Will asked, mind foggy, sluggish, trying to catch up with whatever had happened, whatever had put the urgency into Eldon’s voice. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I _was_ sleeping,” Will answered around a yawn, fighting the downward drift of his eyelids.

Eldon’s head tilted, considering. “Go back to sleep, then,” he said. His shadowed fingers, where they lay on the edge of the mattress, twitched, as though he wanted to reach for the blanket and tug it around Will’s shoulders. But he wouldn’t.

Will already felt himself dropping off again, back into his dreams. 

“I’m going out for a while.”

“Kiss the dogs for me,” Will mumbled, burying his smile into his pillow.

Eldon said something else in that hushed whisper of his, but it faded into the fog of sleep that swept over Will’s eyes.

The next few days fell into a quiet pattern. Will woke, showered and dressed, and then ambled into the kitchen at his leisure. Eldon changed his mind about playing hooky; he returned to work when his weekend ended. The lengthy trek to Wolf Trap that preceded his work day had him looking haggard by the time he got home. One Will would gladly make with him, if not for the certainty that Eldon would see it as a promise of betrayal. 

So Will took it upon himself to make dinner for them, to spare Eldon the additional toil, and to spare his own taste buds the trauma. 

For all that Eldon could whip up a mean breakfast—if one ignored the lack of common sense regarding the associated condiments—and brew a rich cup of coffee, his attempts at dinner had yet to impress. The mushrooms, when he used them, he always cooked to perfection, but the rest… the undercooked risotto for their first meal together lingered in Will’s memory, the rice like little pebbles, still raw in the center. Will would never be a gourmet cook, but he had mastered a handful of recipes, or almost had. Good enough to make do, and with enough know-how to not undercook the rice. 

Eldon stood in the doorway of the kitchen, as still as though turned to stone, when he walked in to see Will standing over the stove, wearing his apron. 

“Ratatouille,” Will said, tossing him a frown. “I had to go to the grocery store for a few things. Where did you put my shoes? I ended up borrowing some of yours.” He pointed at his feet, raised the hem of his jeans to show where the edge of a band-aid stuck out from under his socks. “Blisters.”

This did not go over well. Eldon fussed, insisting on cleaning the little wounds again to prevent infection. He wore nitrile gloves, his touches clinical and efficient. Fleeting. _As little contact as possible_. He didn’t scold, but the look he leveled on Will said it all. 

“Where did you find the money?” Eldon wanted to know. 

“In my coat pocket,” Will answered. It took no effort to find his coat; Eldon had stored it tidily in the closet by the front door, exactly where a coat belonged. “Wallet was in there, but not my keys or phone,” he added, eyebrow raised, hoping for an explanation. He’d deliberately left Eldon’s bedroom unchecked, knowing it would be taking one liberty too many if he let himself in there.

“They’re with your shoes,” Eldon answered, before booting him out of the spare bathroom, now that he’d finished tending the blisters.

“Should have dinner done in fifteen,” Will said, making the short, familiar trek down the hall to the kitchen. 

He’d walked three miles to the closest shop in shoes that were too large. At first, he hadn’t cared, happy and eager for the exercise. By the time he hobbled into the store, he had already decided to call for a cab back. He bought as little as possible—and a first aid kit—considered briefly whether he ought to stop at a library so he could send those work emails he’d mentioned to Eldon before, but then decided against it. 

He wanted to preserve Eldon’s trust. 

As much as he could, he supposed, when he had snuck out from under his kidnapper’s nose, wearing his shoes. At least he found his own coat. Familiar and comfortable. And it made him look like less of a fool; those ridiculous shoes.

Eldon said nothing about the dinner, but put a laptop on the coffee table in front of Will when he came back from cleaning up the kitchen. “If you need any more shopping done,” he said, “make me a list.”

He did not observe Will’s internet browsing, or monitor the content of the emails he sent out. 

They played a game of Go after he finished, and then Eldon called it a night. 

The next day turned out the same way, with one difference come dinner time: shrimp and grits. 

The one after it, too, followed a familiar pattern until dinner: breaded fried whitefish, unfortunately from the store rather than fresh-caught, with red cabbage slaw.

When Eldon came home on the eighth day of Will’s stay, he came home much later than his usual habit. He stood in the doorway of Will’s room, a grim tension in his shoulders and brown dirt thick under his fingernails.

Will’s heart rate jumped, his skin broke out in sweat. “I haven’t started cooking yet,” he said, putting the worn paperback in his hands—memorized, at this point—down onto the mattress beside him and coming to his feet, bare soles against the cold floor. 

Eldon nodded. “I brought some groceries,” he said, and then walked off toward his own bedroom. 

_Groceries_. A thrill coursed up his spine. With the dirt under his fingernails, Will knew what _that _meant. 

He made his steps purposefully slow as he moved toward the kitchen. He timed his breathing to his steps: two in, two out. On top of the counter were a pair of paper bags marked with the grocery store’s name, and another, smaller brown lunch bag with no label. Will’s nose twitched—was that the scent of earth, or merely his memory of it?

The paper crinkling reverberated in his ears, like the wrapping on a Christmas gift coming apart under eager hands. Oyster mushrooms, shiitake, chanterelles, trumpet mushrooms. Dirt still clung to the bottoms, where they had been ripped up from the soil. No wonder Eldon came home late. 

_Did he go specifically to collect his crop? _Will wondered, fingers trembling as he plucked a trumpet mushroom from the bag. _Or did he fill another grave?_

In that moment, he knew, _just knew_, that Eldon stood behind him. He hadn’t sensed the man come into the room. Couldn’t hear his breathing, or feel the heat from his body, or see a shadow cast from his form. But he knew the crinkling of that little brown bag had summoned him, that Eldon would be incapable of resisting its call. That he wanted to see Will’s reaction. 

The stalk, firm between his fingers, the cap exactly as he remembered: velvety soft. He raised it to his nose in appreciation and took a delicate sniff. With reverent hands, he brought it to the sink to rinse the earth from the mycelium, from the stem. He set it on the cutting board and turned around. 

“I thought, pasta?” he said. “Mushrooms and garlic, cream sauce…?”

When Eldon said nothing, Will set about emptying the rest of the shopping bags and beginning his prep. He saw in his peripheral vision that Eldon had walked around to the dining room and seated himself at the pass-through to observe him. 

His perfect silence and stillness made him easy to tune out. Will let himself focus on organizing his ingredients, cooking their dinner. 

His heart would beat out of his chest. As he carefully prepared Eldon’s mushrooms, he felt the man’s eyes on him like a needle pressing up against his skin. The meal itself didn’t take long: he prepared the mushrooms and sauce while the water boiled, and it only took a few minutes after that to cook the pasta and then finish it in the sauce. And yet those minutes spun out like hours under the weight of Eldon’s unwavering gaze, still so full of awe, now also heavy with expectation. 

This meal _mattered_ to Eldon. So it mattered to Will. 

When he finally walked the plates out to the living room, Eldon had set the table, and settled into his usual seat. Conspicuous on the table top: a bottle of white wine. It looked expensive—not an eight dollar Barefoot wine from the grocery store, but something respectable. Maybe not even something from a Total Wine, but from a specialty wine shop. Were there many around here, or had Eldon made _yet another_ special stop on his way home today?

“Dinner,” Will said, setting a plate down in front of Eldon—the prettier one where the chopped parsley had fallen in a more aesthetic pattern—before taking his own seat. 

He found himself staring, following Eldon’s movements as he leaned forward to take a whiff of the steam rising from the plate, as his broad-tipped fingers picked up his fork, speared a slice of trumpet mushroom, dragged it through the sauce, and brought it to his lips. His eyes closed in pleasure, his face went lax. He chewed delicately, savoring, and then swallowed, a hint of a smile curving his lips upward. 

Will had gotten used to Eldon’s silence regarding the meals he prepared. Eldon never thanked him, never commented on whether the food suited his tastes; he always scraped his plate clean and piled it afresh with seconds, though, and that served as a signpost enough. 

So when Eldon’s lips parted, not to take another bite, but to say, “this is delicious,” Will paused in his motion of bringing a bite to his mouth. 

His cheeks heated, and he ducked his head down to hide his face. They ate the rest of the meal in silence, as usual, and though Will could sense Eldon’s gaze on him periodically, he kept his eyes down and his focus on his plate. And his wine. The bottle, a light, dry, grassy thing, drank so well they nearly emptied the bottle between them.

As they cleaned up, he caught Eldon sneaking a sauce-covered noodle from the pan, taking a final bite of a mushroom when the leftovers had finally made it into a Tupperware awaiting refrigeration. The warmth in his cheeks remained, the warmth in his belly from the dinner and the wine. By force of habit, their bodies danced around one another in the kitchen, and then followed one another on the way to the living room. 

_Another game?_ Will wondered, knowing he wouldn’t make a good opponent now, but Eldon moved to the couch instead. As Will passed the coffee table, he saw that the black stone he placed on the board the night before no longer had the field to itself. In the opposite corner, a white one had found a home. A game of chess would work this way, but Go, he had learned, was a more drawn-out, slow-paced game. A pair of moves a day and they would finish the game within this century but not much before the end of it.

He took up the seat in his corner of the couch, easing back into the cushions and letting the wine lower his lashes. Stomach satisfied, a warm lethargy fell over him, cozy as a blanket. 

On the cusp of giving over into sleep, Eldon’s voice brought him back to wakefulness. 

“I’ll be taking the next few days off of work.”

Will righted himself, pushing his bottom back on the seat cushion to straighten his back and find more lumbar support. He’d been sliding, slowly, toward the edge. The mushrooms tonight had been a test after all. _And I passed_. 

A few days off work. He could ask _why_. 

But why even bother asking, when he knew the answer? If Eldon wanted to take time off of work, that meant exactly one thing. They’d be taking a trip to the garden together.

He could mention that _someone_ would note Eldon’s absence. But he knew what Eldon would say in response to that, too. 

_We’re going to get caught_. 

And yet…

So he folded up his concerns and tucked them into his breast pocket. “Okay,” he said instead, heart rate picking back up again, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing on end with the sudden rush of adrenaline. “Hit the hay early tonight?”

Eldon nodded, coming to his feet. “I’ll wake you in the morning,” he said. 

As though Will would be able to sleep at all tonight.

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update 8/27 (GMT-4)!  
Just a quick thank you to the discord server (which, if you're a legal adult, you can join **[here](https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB)**)!  
It has been developing into such a fun little community! Here's a pitch for why you should join (written by broup (pronounced broop), who just got accepted into their desired Archival Studies Program! Congratulations!!):  
_used car salesman voice_: are you as thirsty for consequence of consumption content updates as matthew is for will's sweet, sweet [censored]? well then come on down to the cannibal collective. we've got it all: cults, cucumbers, screaming about fic updates in real time, good ass fanart, the newly canonized St. Ted, and interactive fanfiction that puts you—yes you!—behind the wheel like you're not going to thelma and louise it into gratuitous eyefucking. come on down today and get yourself a brand new series of regrets!  
The interactive fanfiction is _super_ fun, and updates 4x/wk, and I'm posting chapters as we finish them. It's really fun. And the creative community is so supportive and fantastic!
> 
> Also, I've cowritten a fic with a friend, about Will as a Postal Worker-- Read it **[here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898605/chapters/62936644)**!  



	25. Competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately a 29-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-Five

Competition.

-+-

The transition from sleep to consciousness was so gradual, so gentle, that he almost didn’t notice it. The darkness lightened, a pleasant warmth on the outsides of his eyelids. His lashes fluttered open to behold the ceiling, the pattern of its hair-line fissures as familiar to him as the lines on his palms. He traced them with an imaginary finger, mind calm, body luxuriating in the soft stroke of the sunbeam across his face, the cocooning heat of the blankets wrapped around him. 

He breathed in the scent of coffee percolating, the sounds of his dogs yipping playfully from the other side of the window. Winston, his usual alarm clock, played among them, though he kept close to the house, and rotated his head back every so often, a hitch in his step. 

_Wondering whether he should come back in and get me out of bed_. They’d gotten into a routine, after all. Normally, the press of Winston’s nose against his hand or his cheek broke him from his troubled rest; kicking him into wakefulness like a drowning man breaching the surface of the water—desperate for air, panicked, clawing into a consciousness whose mundanity offered the only escape from his nightmares. How long had it been since he last drifted out of sleep in this way? Since he woke rested and relaxed, cozy in dry sheets and dry clothing, skin cool and mind clear? 

When Winston looped toward the house, then back away when Buster sprinted by with a tennis ball in his mouth, he huffed a little laugh.

“Ah, awake at last.”

Hannibal’s voice. 

As smooth and warm and comforting as the sunbeam that woke him. He floated in its echoes for a moment before bracing to sit himself up in bed. Hannibal had repositioned Will’s reading chair to face the bed while Will slept, and he sat in it now as comfortably as though he’d passed many an afternoon in just that spot. The book in his hands closed at Will’s attention and settled onto Hannibal’s lap. 

“Find anything interesting?” Will teased. He recognized the faded, worn-out binding immediately: Fly Fishing and Worm Fishing for Salmon, Trout, and Grayling. A fourth edition, but still an antique. His dad bought it for him at a flea-market not long before Will turned thirteen, to keep him quiet while they shopped for a gift for Aunt Maureen’s birthday. Ironically, while Dad’s interest in fishing had never resonated with Will before then, it took only one afternoon with his nose buried in that little paperback to make him a convert.

“You have quite a collection of fishing-related paraphernalia. I found myself curious.” He leaned over to set the book on the side table and then approached the edge of the mattress to settle himself there. No request for permission this time; following in the pattern of their little coat-doffing ritual. 

After last night, they’d passed the point of asking for that sort of permission. And yet, upright now and no longer out of his mind, this felt _too close_. “Yeah, I’m—” he swallowed, giving himself some distance by focusing on his hands in his lap, blocking out the view of the other man. “I’m up.”

Hannibal’s hand reached for Will’s face, cupping his cheek in a mirror of the previous evening’s caress. The memory of his own confessions flooded over Will, along with the pleasant lull that had blanketed him at Hannibal’s easy acceptance. His lashes fluttered low in that brief indulgence, but when Hannibal’s thumb swiped against his cheek, Will came back to himself. 

The minute flinch, pulling his face ever so slightly back from Hannibal’s hand, seemed to jostle Hannibal back to his senses. He released Will’s cheek, wrist rising to settle on Will’s forehead for only a blink. An efficient touch, withdrawn just as quickly. Eldon’s touches, so hesitant and sparse, flitted to mind in sharp contrast to Doctor Lecter’s, so clinical and sure. The fussing they had in common, though. “No more fever.”

_It’s a clinical touch _now, he amended, but before that, it had been warm and gentle—the tingle on his scalp, on his cheek, where Hannibal’s caressing hand had cradled his face, where his fingers had tangled in his hair. Lingering, affectionate.

Will leaned into those caresses without reserve last night. Their imprint on his skin lingered too, as though the places Hannibal had touched wanted to reach for Hannibal’s hand in turn. He rubbed over his face to dispel the prickling sensation.

And Hannibal’s hand remained unmoving, resting primly beside his leg on the bed, though energy seemed to spill over from the fingertips, crossing the expanse between them. 

“How do you feel?”

“Uh,” he looked up at Hannibal’s face to find it the perfect picture of polite, friendly interest. _Oh. _Maybe Hannibal had let himself get swept away in that atmosphere, too. “Better, I think. Sleep helped. I—” he swallowed. _What the hell. _“I don’t remember the last time I slept that well.”

A pleased smile bloomed on Hannibal’s face, along with a glimmer in his eye reminiscent of his expression as they spoke in hushed tones, as he issued his greeting this morning. But then his face shuttered. _Control reestablished. “_Breakfast?” Hannibal offered, coming to his feet. 

“Yeah, I could eat.” 

Hannibal departed to the kitchen, and Will released a long, slow breath, fingers wringing in his lap. 

Nope. That affection hadn’t been a temporary lapse in the doctor’s judgment.

He gnawed on his lip for a minute, turning over their discussions in the dark, holding their contents up for comparison against Hannibal’s behavior then, his behavior now. The warmth in his eyes, the awe.

The _awe_. 

_I’ve seen that look before. _

It may have been fleeting, but Will had caught it. Which meant he’d been staring. He frowned, sparing another quick glance at the kitchen. At a distance now, he could bear to look at him. Hannibal stood at the counter, poking through the cabinets. A different suit than he’d worn yesterday, but still as casual. The jacket, tie, and pocket square that matched were draped over a hanger that hooked onto a high shelf on the bookcase in the living room. Hannibal turned and Will glimpsed skin as the collar of his shirt shifted. 

_Has he ever been this dressed down around me?_

A huff of frustration, then he shook his head to jostle those thoughts away. He needed to pay less attention to Hannibal’s newfound ease, and more to recovering his own. So, the way he often did when not feeling like himself, he opted for a shower. Fresh clothes from his dresser and his closet in hand, he plodded up the stairs to get ready for the day. He showered—in and out in less than five minutes—washed his face and brushed his teeth. His reflection stared back at him, assessing, preening, and he caught himself reaching up to do something about his hair. 

_No. _

When he descended the stairs, he found Hannibal pouring out two mugs of coffee, wearing Will’s apron, the table already set with two steaming plates. Even with his back turned, Hannibal seemed to know the exact moment that Will reached for his chair. “A protein scramble,” he introduced, “with home-made bacon and a vegetable hash.”

“You made _this _in my kitchen,” Will said, then nearly bit his tongue at the overt marvel in his voice. It really looked like something you’d order at a restaurant, though, portioned perfectly and plated elegantly. Fluffy-looking eggs, mouthwatering strips of bacon, and the vegetables beautifully bright. And fork-tender, he’d bet his money on that. 

He waited for Hannibal to join him at the table before digging in at last. They ate mostly in silence, though when Will took his first bite of those perfect eggs, he had to tamp down the little moan of appreciation that vibrated from his throat. An embarrassed glance up and he clocked Hannibal’s amusement. Hand shielding his still-full mouth, he mumbled an “it’s delicious,” and silence resumed, broken again only by the clattering of utensils, the distant sounds of the dogs, and one or two more aborted groans of enjoyment. 

With his physical needs—rest, food, caffeine—attended to, the ordeal of Eldon’s trial now behind him, and Hannibal’s companionable silence to keep him company, the turbulent seas of Will’s mind grew calm. Placid. Undisturbed_._ He looked up and their eyes met. Will’s smile stretched a little wider. “Best I’ve felt in years.” 

The crinkling in the corners of Hannibal’s eyes highlighted them, the way they recaptured the barest glimmer of the intimacy they’d shared in the lamplight. “Have you purged the toxins, Will?”

_The secrets we bury inside of us can fester. Unburdening ourselves can cleanse that rot._

Will chuckled, pointing his awkwardness into his mug. “Less cleansed than reinvigorated,” he answered. “A fallowed field, grown fertile.”

“Left fallow,” Hannibal mused, “by whom?”

This idle curiosity made Will’s palms go clammy, his mouth run dry. ‘_Your tool of preference has always been your superior perception.’ _A preference he and Hannibal shared, apparently. But after the tide of unease flowed over him, it ebbed just as quickly. Hannibal remained calm, focused on his breakfast.

This routine of theirs, philosophizing over a meal together, he knew well enough. The air didn’t sparkle with the dangerously comfortable charge that permeated it before. A gift, on Hannibal’s part; a conversation meant to help them rebalance, to find a workable equilibrium together that acknowledged but did not linger on the anomaly of last night. This version of Hannibal he knew how to handle.

Will’s mind settled, and the ripples subsided. 

“And more to the point, to be planted and cultivated hereafter by whom?”

Will’s mouth popped open in disbelief. And offense: in extending that metaphor, Hannibal robbed Will of his agency, _and that’s not what I meant when I said that_—but a sudden chorus of barks outside snapped their attention away from each other, and stole from him the chance to answer. A moment later, a knock at the door. 

Will recognized that knock. 

One psychiatrist—even one that Will liked, that Will knew looked at him and saw someone worthwhile rather than someone broken—he could barely handle. _Two _he could not. Frowning and tense, he wrapped his hands tightly around his mug of coffee, knuckles white with the strength of his grip. Hannibal’s hand tapped the table lightly within Will’s field of vision in a gesture for him to stay, and Will braced himself as Hannibal stood to answer the door.

“Alana,” Hannibal said. His tone of voice reverted to the benign, smooth thing that Will associated with the early days of their friendship; a tone that sounded foreign, now that they were closer, now that they were _friends_. “Please, come in.”

“_Hannibal_,” she said, and Will could feel her sense of surreality at receiving this familiar greeting, this familiar welcome, but at the wrong house. “How—Oh,” she stopped. “Oh my _God_.”

This caught Will’s interest enough to look from Hannibal’s back to the sliver of Alana’s face he could see beyond it, and he caught the trajectory of her gaze. Hannibal’s chest. 

_The apron_, he recalled, face flooding with color. A gag gift he’d received in college—so long ago now that he no longer _saw_ the design when he looked at it, not even when Hannibal had put it on to cook this morning. Black and white, with a picture of a pig divided into its cuts, and the slogan, ‘I like my butt rubbed and my pork pulled.’

He could die. 

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal asked, serene, though his voice carried humor. 

But while Will nearly surrendered himself to laughter, Alana seemed to come back to herself, reorienting herself to her concerns, blocking out the apron. 

“Hannibal,” she whispered, “Is everything okay?”

Hannibal’s shoulders shifted, and Will sat straighter in his chair, knowing what would follow. “I’m sure Will can answer that for himself,” he said and stepped out of the way to allow Alana her first look into the room. 

She looked shocked when her eyes landed on him. How could he blame her, when he’d marveled at his own reflection not twenty minutes earlier? Fresh-faced, cheeks a vital pink rather than wan, eyes bright, rather than bruised-looking. Not a ghost, or a person harried by one. “Hey, Alana,” he said.

“Will,” she greeted, not guarding her relief at seeing him so well. Still wrapped in that eye-catching red coat, the hem of a blue and black printed dress peeking out from beneath it, opaque tights revealing the shape of her legs. She looked put together, but even her carefully applied makeup couldn’t hide the dark smudges under her eyes. She hadn’t slept, then. Too worried about him? “How are you?”

He grunted, embarrassed, and oddly guilty, given that he’d slept like a baby. “I’m fine,” he said and raised the coffee to his lips. “What brings you here so early?”

Alana laughed. “What brings _both_ of us here so early,” she said, shining eyes directed at Hannibal before returning to Will. “Worried about you, I guess?” 

Hannibal faced him, and Will met that gaze directly, mirroring the secretive little quirk at the corner of Hannibal’s lips. Alana assumed Hannibal came, an early visitor like her, to check up on him. Her gentle teasing exposed her certainty, and neither of them would correct her. Another secret to keep between them. 

_Did you help Eldon inter one of his victims, Will?_

Will broke eye contact and stared down into his coffee, trying to gather himself and control the sudden rush of nausea and panic that rose within him. _Not much perturbs him_, he reminded himself and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before refocusing on Alana. The smile had faded from her face. She’d caught the look floating between them. “I’m okay,” he said. “It’s a load off.”

“Would you care for some coffee?” Hannibal asked her, already on his way to the machine to pour her a cup. 

Alana murmured her thanks, and walked into the room, seating herself across from Will at the table. “My calls went straight to voicemail,” she said. “You had me worried.”

Will scratched at the back of his neck, following Hannibal’s maneuvering as he prepared Alana’s coffee the way she liked it, as familiar and at home in Will’s kitchen now as though it were his own. “My phone doesn’t keep a charge very long,” he said by way of apology. “I haven’t touched it since I got home.”

She reached across the tabletop, fingers stopping a bare inch away from his arm. Always so respectful of his personal space. His eyes flicked up to Hannibal, who stood beside Alana’s poured and prepared cup and busied himself with wiping the already clean counter, before dropping back down to her fingers. “Will, I—”

Hannibal stepped to the table and set the steaming mug of coffee gently down beside Alana’s outstretched hand. She took it and cast him a grateful smile. “Should I charge your phone for you, Will?” Hannibal asked. A well-timed interruption.

“Oh um—” Will looked up, caught the way Hannibal’s eyebrow rose, almost teasing. An out. He would take it. “It’s in my—never mind. I’ll get it,” he said, and did just that. 

Behind him, a frustrated feminine sigh, chased by the soft puff of breath as Alana cooled off her coffee, and the gentle thunk of wood on wood as Hannibal pulled a seat back to join her at the table. Will rummaged through the pockets of the jeans he’d worn the night before, and then between the cushions on his couch, hands searching for his phone, but ears stretching for what little tidbits of their conversation he could catch. 

“—_your _blend, Hannibal?” 

A noncommittal murmur. 

Will fished his phone out from under the cushion and plugged it in. 

“Just how early did you get here?” A little more suspicion in her voice this time. 

The screen lit up, and before he could even set it down to charge, started vibrating in his hand.

He saw the name on the screen and his stomach soured. _Why now?_

“Everything alright?” Hannibal asked from his place at the table. 

Had he spoken aloud? “It’s nothing,” he said. “I need to—” it rang again. “One second.”

He answered the call where he stood, stooping over to accommodate the shorter length of the charger cable. “_Matthew_.” The instant the name left his lips, the hair on the base of his neck stood on end. A glance back at the table and two sets of eyes were staring back at him with laser-like intensity. 

“Will,” Matthew’s voice came down the line, in the silky tone of someone suppressing a fount of anger. 

“Is everything all right, Will?” Hannibal repeated, standing from the table, apparently dissatisfied with Will’s lack of answer the first time. 

“Hold on a—” he held up a hand and cupped the phone to his ear, “hold on a second,” he managed. 

“Who’s Matthew?” Alana asked, looking between them. 

“I just need a minute.” If only he could retreat upstairs; but if he disconnected the phone from the charger the battery would die, and that Matthew would not take that well. Instead, he’d have to watch his words, hope Matthew caught on, and hang up quickly. “Matthew.”

“You having a party, Will?” he asked. “Did my invitation get lost in the mail?”

Any of the lingering pleasantness from the night before or remaining calm from a peaceful sleep disappeared in an instant. “You’re outside?”

“Doctor Bloom’s hybrid is blocking your gate,” Matthew answered, still simmering with anger. “And I’m staring at the Bentley on your lawn.”

Will’s hackles rose. “Look, now’s really not—”

“Hasn’t moved from where it was last night,” Matthew hissed. “The Bentley. And here I thought I’d get a turn to check in on you.”

Will counted to three before answering. “A lot’s been going on the last few days. I haven’t made any plans.”

“Can you blame me for worrying about you?” Matthew seethed, barely listening. “You looked like you were about to pass out on the stand.”

“You were there?” Will asked, fingers kneading against his scalp, then stilling when he remembered his audience. “I didn’t see you.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” A pause. “You looked at Gabberdy maybe _twice_. If you looked at anyone, it was Stammets.”

“High-pressure situation,” Will grumbled. He sat on the couch; Hannibal and Alana, unabashedly staring before, whipped around to face each other. _I need to defuse this_. Matthew’s cooperation still mattered. Would keep mattering, so long as he worked where Eldon sat behind bars. “If I’d had a choice, things would have played out differently,” he said. If he’d had a choice, Alana wouldn’t have come over, and Matthew wouldn’t have called. 

But Matthew interpreted this the way Will intended him to. “Two shrinks too many,” he surmised. “Smaller birds.”

_Have you noticed the way smaller birds will mob a hawk on a wire, Mr. Graham?_

He hummed, aware that Matthew would read agreement into that noncommittal noise. “What do you think they’d have to say about _this_?” 

This seemed to get Hannibal’s attention; his head swiveled ever so slightly in Will’s direction. Neither he nor Alana spoke, their hands on their coffee mugs and their eyes downcast. _They would make terrible spies_. 

“You still owe me, Will.” Relenting, a little. Matthew had caught on, but forgiveness wouldn’t come so easily. “I’m expecting you to make it up to me.”

A long sigh and he propped his elbows on his knees, head dangling. “We can figure something out.”

“I’ll stop by later,” Matthew murmured, pacified.

Not what Will would prefer, but he would take it for now. “Thanks, Matthew.”

“Matty.”

He shut his eyes and clamped his teeth together, inhaling deep. “What?”

“Good friends call me Matty.” 

Barely a concession at all, but it stuck in Will’s craw. _It’s only friendship if both sides want it_, he wanted to spit but stopped himself. “Thanks, _Matty._”

“You’re welcome.” Smug. “See you later, Will.”

Now he did hang up and when he raised his head, found his guests staring openly at him once more. 

“Who’s _Matty_?” Alana asked, cheeks a little pink, eyes sparkling with humor. 

Will shook his head and snorted through his nose, but the question remained on her face as she turned to Hannibal, seeking an explanation. Hannibal raised his eyebrows, as close as he would get to a shrug, but the tension in the lines around his mouth told Will that he knew _exactly_ who Matty was. 

What with that impeccable memory. _But to be so upset about it?_ He wanted to point a finger at the nickname, but the idea didn’t sit right.

A knock on the door saved him from any further reflections on the matter.

“What is the point,” he growled, getting to his feet, “of having a gate and a fence when _everyone hops over it_?” A hitch in his step and he glanced over his shoulder to see the hurt furrowing Alana’s brow. “Present company excluded,” he murmured in apology before he yanked open the door. 

And immediately regretted it. 

“Will.” Jack barreled in around him and stopped in his tracks as soon as he saw Hannibal and Alana. But both of them had parked outside. This affront came from elsewhere. “I couldn’t get a hold of _any _of you. Am I interrupting something?” 

Will blinked, opened his mouth to answer.

Jack cut him off before he made a sound. “Doesn’t matter. Get your coat on, Graham. We’ve got a crime scene.” Alana stood, and in her tempering voice, tried to remind Jack that now _really isn’t the time_, but though he allowed her to speak, her words didn’t reach him. His jaw remained set, his body stiff, his eyes flashing with impatience and anger. Alana’s speech tapered off as she grew aware of his immovability. “It’s the Ripper, Graham. For sure, this time.”

The soft light pouring in through the window turned to shadow—a cloud passing over the sun, maybe, but it felt as though the ground had given way beneath Will’s feet, dropping him into the darkness. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. 

_Elegant, understated. _The shaming mask, that perfectly wrapped morsel, flitted through his memory. The article about Eldon, shredded along with the ones about the Ripper. He’d wondered whether the Ripper knew Eldon after all; even if Eldon denied it, the evidence pointed strongly toward _yes_.

_Another crime scene, this time the day after closing arguments for Eldon’s trial?_

Too much coincidence.

“Have you seen it?” Will croaked, aware of three pairs of eyes on him, but able to focus on nothing but the prickling white lights of excitement floating in his vision. “This isn’t Zeller getting ahead of himself…?” Dizziness overtook him and his knees almost gave way. A firm hand on his arm led him to the couch. 

Supportive. And not fleeting; not this time. _Hannibal_. Will sagged into it, letting the good doctor take his weight.

He barely heard Jack’s voice through the growing fog. “It’s _him_.”

“Well,” Will managed, lips numb, their movement sluggish. “I guess we’d better go, then.”

-+-

On his second trip out to Wolf Trap, Matthew found that if he followed the neighbor’s drive down a ways, there was an easy spot to pull over where he could park the truck, walk for about two minutes through the trees and settle in on a conveniently located little outcrop with a view of Will’s home. He’d camped out here any number of times by now, and it had been his natural first stop when he drove past the house to find that Will already had company. That he _still_ had company.

From this vantage point on the outcrop, he saw the nondescript black SUV drive up and park behind Dr. Bloom’s hybrid at the gate. Jack Crawford got out, stumbled in his climb over the wooden posts, and nearly jogged to Will’s front door. The impromptu party at Will’s didn’t last long after that. Maybe five minutes later, Crawford and Bloom stepped out into the cold. They unlocked the gate, and Alana moved her hybrid onto the drive, stopping it by Lecter’s car before getting back out and joining Jack Crawford for an exchange of angry-looking words. 

A sharp whistle stopped that conversation; the dogs loped back to the house, Alana Bloom following slowly behind. Once they’d all been cleaned off and let inside, Lecter stepped out. 

_That smug son of a bitch._

Will, a minute after that. Bundled up, face white as a sheet. Lecter wrapped an arm around Will’s shoulders, his other gloved hand gripping onto Will’s arm, supporting him on the way down the porch steps. Predictably, he steered Will off to the Bentley. Less predictably, he settled Will in the backseat and offered Dr. Bloom shotgun. 

Jack Crawford hopped into his own vehicle, and then, after Dr. Lecter got out to lock the gate behind the Bentley, they drove off together. 

Matthew sat in the cold, puffing steam into the air before him. His ass, separated from the stone by nothing more than the seat of his jeans, felt frozen, along with the tip of his nose. He didn’t clock the cold, though, not with the heat of rage bubbling up through his veins. 

_That smug—_

He stood, pacing to work off his impatience, his frustration. All the time they’d spent together, Will had _never_ allowed him into his space that way. The one time that Matthew managed a touch, he had to steal it. 

As much as he treasured the memory of those soft, dark curls, it infuriated him by equal measure now. 

“Last few haven’t gone right,” he muttered, scrubbing his hand over his face. Will allowed him that touch because they’d had a—a communion of the mind, as it were. A little _behold a man_ to bond over. Since then, he’d let his impatience get ahead of him.

“Told you so himself,” he ground out between his teeth. “But you didn’t want to listen.”

He walked one more circuit before stomping back through the wood toward his car. Things had started off so well. _So well_. He’d been so confident. And then Dr. Hannibal Lecter sunk his claws in, and Will leaned in instead of away. 

How _the fuck_ that happened—

He slammed the door closed and battered his hands against the wheel, striking it so hard the whole truck shook around him. This little outburst calmed him a little. His breathing slowed, his spiraling mind unwound. 

_Not too late to fix things. Just gotta know what you’re up against_. 

The key turned in the ignition and the engine roared to life, but he didn’t drive off yet. His phone came out of his jacket pocket and he navigated to TattleCrime. Jack Crawford, Bloom, Lecter, _and_ Will all going off together could mean one thing only: the Chesapeake Ripper must have come out to play. 

But when he saw that Lounds still hadn’t updated the site, he opened up her twitter feed. ‘_Big scoop! Stay tuned.’_

Confirmation enough. 

Matthew tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. They’d agreed to meet tonight, but if Will’s day consisted of chasing the Ripper, Lecter would want to talk through the case with Will, probably, and Matthew would get foisted off for another day. _Can’t have that_. 

So he pulled open his text messages and fired two off. 

[A little birdie told me you’re going to be busy today.]

[Big case?]

He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his lips when Will answered almost immediately. [Seems like it. Do you mind if we postpone for tonight?]

[Sure thing] he wrote. He looked down at his gas gauge and frowned. He could probably make it as far as Clarendon before he’d have to—

All at once, the idea came to him. What was that restaurant called? _Baba; _their little brunch date there, and that airheaded waitress who just _ate up_ Will’s sweet ol’ Southern Boy routine. What was her name? Abby? No—Amy. _Amy_.

_That how you pick ‘em? How you bait the line?_

[Sorry for this morning]

He sent it, but the next one didn’t come so easy. ‘_I want to make it up to you’ _sounded too much like the ‘you still owe me’ he’d threatened Will with on their phone call; ‘_Things got off course with us’_ came off as too needy. ‘_I am worried about you_’ might read as patronizing, or invasive. ‘_When works for you?_’ gave Will too much power to shove Matthew to the bottom of his to-do list. Again.

So he settled on [I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow]

And for good measure, followed it up with: [We should talk]

And then he put his car in gear and drove off to Clarendon. A quick pit-stop to get gas, and then maybe a bite to eat. 

He knew just the place.

-+-

> **[[ The Ripper Returns! Making Men Into Pigs, Courtesy of Will Graham’s Commentary ]]**
> 
> The Chesapeake Ripper, the DC Metro area’s most haunting serial killer to date, has made a dramatic return to the scene. With ten prior known victims—the ninth being Miriam Lass, FBI trainee, and the tenth included in a personal delivery to this very reporter’s doorstep—experts posit that this is only the tip of the iceberg for this prolific killer, hypothesizing he may be responsible for as much as double that number of deaths, simply escaping detection. 
> 
> After a long period of silence, however, the Ripper has, at last, claimed his eleventh. 
> 
> Few details have been made publicly available by the FBI, but the FBI has always remained notoriously tight-lipped regarding matters of public safety.
> 
> This reporter has managed to unearth some interesting information about the case, however. What we know: the victim, a Mr. Herald Peretti, worked for legal consultant firm Burnham, Leif, and Patel. He was found this morning around 4:30 AM by the morning shift janitorial staff of said legal consulting firm. While the crime scene has been closely guarded, sources have described his body as “a Frankenstein creation, making a man into a pig, with hooves where his hands and feet should be, sitting at the computer.”
> 
> Rest assured, readers, this reporter is working night and day to get you photographs of the scene. 
> 
> Approximately two-and-a-half hours before that, an electricity outage affected the 1800 block of Bonvivant St., including the office building where Peretti works. The security firm with oversight of the building reported sending out patrols to the area with nothing suspicious reported during sweeps of the building. Peretti’s own backup key was apparently used to gain access to the building while the power was out. More details to come.
> 
> Though details of the case itself have been kept tightly under wraps, we at TattleCrime have managed to obtain some salient information about the handling of the case. Former abductee of Eldon Stammets the Mushroom Man, now a part-time consultant for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit and resident specialist on the Chesapeake Ripper, Will Graham was spotted at the crime scene in the company of Jack Crawford, Dr. Hannibal Lecter (who you will likely recognize from the Baltimore Sun’s Society Pages), and Dr. Alana Bloom. The Doctors Bloom and Lecter have ostensibly been on-boarded as profiling consultants, but sources have reported they serve more of a _psychiatric support_ role for the unstable Mr. Graham.
> 
> Our source has reported that Will Graham made several comments while at the scene that raised concerns regarding his desire to work only the Ripper’s murders. “He’s been calling the Ripper’s kills _sounders_,” per our source. A sounder is a group noun for a herd of wild swine, for those of us who didn’t know. “And then the Ripper goes and _makes a man a pig?” _
> 
> Read that again, readers. Will Graham calls the Ripper kills sounders, and the Ripper goes and turns his victim into a pig. Coincidence? Or evidence of a direct line between two deranged minds?
> 
> When asked for further detail about Graham’s perceptions of the scene, our source says: “He teeters over the line from observation to admiration. He called it the Ripper’s _artistic expression_, he said that he has _a light hand_ and a _deft touch_. What kind of person thinks turning a man into a pig is ‘light-handed’?”
> 
> I would answer that, readers, but I have a feeling you already know what I have to say. 

-+-

Tobias Budge scrolled idly through the comments at the bottom of the page, aware of nothing at all but the dissatisfaction churning in his gut. He shut the screen off on his tablet and leaned back in his chair, turning over possibilities. 

He’d learned over the years to take Freddie Lounds’ articles with a grain of salt. The ‘Only the Ripper Will Do’ article she’d published about Will Graham had the air of a gossip rag, and though he’d gobbled it up, he paid it no mind. Especially after he met Will Graham in person, not so long after. 

A short interaction, but Tobias believed in the power of his own perception. He’d always had an eye—and an ear—for sussing out the essence of a man. Will Graham had waltzed into Chordophone that day, eyes a gray-blue and illuminated from within, a miniature thunderstorm, when he looked at Tobias. 

And through those eyes, Will Graham saw through Tobias immediately. He’d sized him up and taken his measure in _moments_, where the others in his life saw aloofness or detachment, if they caught on at all. Will’s shocking insightfulness would have been impressive on its own, but that he too was a musician, an artist, cemented Tobias’ interest. 

That he eventually followed up on his request for a quote, and then his behavior at the house when Tobias finally went, made it clear that he returned that interest. 

Barefoot and rumpled, he’d made a handsome enough picture. Skin pink from exertion, chest heaving as he ran back into the house, he’d been downright arresting. But more than his physical beauty, the impression he left as he played those first few notes on the piano lingered in Tobias’ consciousness the longest. 

For all that four years had passed since Will’s last time at a piano, Hoagy Carmichael had never sounded so somber, so romantic. The nocturnes, tucked into his bag on impulse, seemed preordained. 

And then there were the letters hidden so carefully away in his nightstand drawer, treasured mementos rather than unwanted memories. Creases nearly worn through, paper soft from frequent handling. Compelling.

But, as naturally cautious man, he didn’t himself get carried away. Will Graham may be a rare creature, but his sympathy to those of their kind may extend no further than Eldon Stammets. So Tobias had watched the trial with interest, recording Will Graham’s testimony and dissecting his performance on the stand the way he did his student’s recitals and competitions.

The conclusion he reached pleased him so deeply that he canceled his classes for the next day just so he could bask in it. And his afternoon would have gone on unspoiled if not for the force of habit that led him to open the TattleCrime app during his afternoon tea.

_Only the Ripper will do_, he mused. But he knew that couldn’t be true. Will had a history with Leonard Marron, who, on further digging, had mentioned someone he called ‘sharp thing’ in a number of interviews after his imprisonment. Said it didn’t matter that he’d been locked up—not when he had a sharp thing wandering around out there, doing the good work in his stead. Who else could he mean but Will Graham? And there was Eldon Stammets; whose letter, with the added context of the other unpublished correspondence, had the distinct ring of a declaration, rather than a threat.

Maybe Will _did _favor the Ripper over the other riff-raff. And if he did, who could blame him? Elliot Budish’s crime scenes had been messy and heavy-handed. Abel Gideon’s Ripper knock-off would, by its nature, fail to impress. Will had the soul of an artist. Tobias could envision him describing the Ripper’s work through that lens. Admiring a light touch. 

But his perception of artistry would be naturally limited; he’d never seen Tobias’ work. Or heard it, rather. If he’d owned a violin, Tobias would have given him some of his Chordophone branded ‘cat-gut’, and likely ascended to heaven in hearing him play. 

Rusty or not, Tobias recognized something inside of Will that he had only ever seen in himself. Will may hide away, the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, but Tobias knew he could pull the wool from Will’s eyes. He could make him see the truth. Help him find the beauty in the darkness. 

Leonard Marron may have wanted to, and Eldon Stammets may have offered him a taste, but neither of them knew. Neither of them saw Will for what he was. Nobody did.

Except Tobias. 

_They were fools_, he decided. _Didn’t know what they held in their hands. But I know who you are, Will Graham_. 

He would expand Will’s palate. Give him the chance to appreciate an artist with a different musical flavor. 

_‘The nocturnes are so lyrical. Dreamy, romantic. I’d peg you for something more dramatic, powerful. The Russians, maybe.’_

Such coyness in his smile as he said it.

_‘But the selection was not made with me in mind, Mr. Graham.’_

He got up from his desk and walked over to the filing cabinet where he kept his personal collection of sheet music. Would it be too much to offer him another Nocturne? Or should he cater to Will’s suggestion and offer him something more Russian in flavor?

_Only the Ripper Will do?_ he mused, pulling a folder from the file. _Not for long._

He’d give Will Graham the chance to appreciate something better. 

Make him an instrument, something that would tempt his long, elegant fingers, that would make him itch to play. 

And then he’d give Will Graham the opportunity to make something beautiful _with_ him.

Together. 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took 160k words, but I think that there's a little glowing ember in this pile of ashes... could it, perhaps, be the sign of a fire starting?
> 
> Another update forthcoming, on **9/17**! 
> 
> Just a quick reminder that we have a discord server (which, if you're a legal adult, you can join **[here](https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB)**)! Here's an enticement written by one of the server members, urging you to join us:  
Hey readers! As you’ve likely seen ironlotus runs a discord server for this fic (ACOC)! However, the best part of this server is the community that comes together to assist in writing – pulling up journals on psychology and spit-balling ideas for some of the other authors happens quite often on the server. We have some pretty organized channels over here, and having a diverse group to help brainstorm is always helpful!


	26. Interlude: What Followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely delayed. My apologies.  
TW: graphic descriptions of violence.  
Approximately a 40-minute read.

-+-

**A Consequence of Consumption**

Chapter Twenty-Six

Interlude:

What Followed.

-+-

The moment the door to the bedroom clicked open, Will’s body roused from its shallow sleep, the adrenaline that boiled over inside him the night before bringing him back to life, as though he hadn’t needed to sleep a minute. 

“Will,” Eldon’s voice spoke into the darkness. 

Instead of answering, Will leaned over and turned on his bedside lamp. He peered up at Eldon, squinting through the sudden influx of light, and once his eyes adjusted, found Eldon staring back. The man stood in the doorway, silent for the space of several long breaths, almost as though hypnotized. He returned to motion, startled from his daze, when Will reached over to the nightstand for his glasses. 

“Can’t you leave them?” he asked. 

“You get to wear yours.”

“Mine are prescription.” 

On the cusp of putting them on regardless, Will saw the way Eldon’s fingers fidgeted together in front of him, and changed his mind. Eldon didn’t understand how the glasses helped Will to attune his focus. He thought of them as a barrier, and he wanted Will’s experience to be a raw, unfiltered thing. Fine. 

_I can give him that_. 

So he left the glasses on the nightstand and slipped out from between the sheets. His bare feet landed on the floor, the shock of the cold against his skin sending a shiver up his spine. Eldon had gone still again, unblinking. Even when he stared like this, Will never found it in himself to feel self-conscious; his gaze didn’t leer, or taunt, or threaten how Lenny’s had.

Eldon lived apart. He did not share his time or his space or his thoughts with anyone. That Will should share even this little of himself… it made sense that Eldon’s eyes clouded over as though rediscovering the fact that Will was human too. A person, with knees and feet, who sometimes sneezed or sighed or slept, like him, and like the masses of other people Eldon had been so estranged from throughout the course of his life. 

At some point, while Will dressed, Eldon left the room. Will found him in the kitchen, packing two insulated travel mugs presumably filled with coffee into a lunch bag. He trailed after him to the front door, delighted to see that his shoes had been left sitting out for him to put on. 

“You’re not putting these away again when we get back, are you?” Will asked, half-joking, though the humor dissipated at Eldon’s serious contemplation before answering. 

“I was considering it.”

“You have a thing for treating my blisters?” Will snarked, unaccountably peeved. 

Eldon didn’t acknowledge this; instead, he glanced at Will and pulled one of the coffee carafes from the lunch bag, passing it over to his eager hands. He toed on his own shoes while Will fumbled with the lid on the thermos, and then settled against the front door, arms crossed, waiting. 

It took until Will had tied his own shoes on and taken another grateful sip of his coffee before Eldon spoke again. 

“I need you to promise that you’ll do what I say, today.”

Will peered up at him. Eldon had shown himself to be cautious; he wouldn’t do anything that would directly endanger either of them. He wanted to keep Will around for as long as he could manage—_why else still consider locking up my shoes?_—so he would value preserving both Will’s life and his freedom. “I can do that.” 

The moment the words left his lips, Will realized the ridiculousness of offering his trust to the man that had beaten him into unconsciousness and kidnapped him. _Stockholm syndrome at work? _A laughable idea; Will had stopped feeling like a captive the moment that he realized who Eldon was, and what he had done. The moment that he linked Eldon to the mushroom garden Will saw him, saw through the layers of skin, muscle, fat and bone, and deep into the dark, winding pathways of his mind. Saw the loneliness, and the desperate need to be _known_. 

Will… Will could relate to that. 

“As few questions as you can manage, until we get back ho—” Eldon cut himself off, voice strangled as he corrected himself. “Until we get back.”

Will didn’t bother hiding his smile at that little slip. “I’ll do my best.”

A nod before Eldon uncrossed his arms and straightened. He led the way out the front door, waiting for Will to step through before locking it behind him. 

Eldon’s car sat in the driveway; an older sedan, still in pristine condition. Will imagined Eldon to be a safe driver, following traffic laws as written. As he approached the vehicle, he noted the dark brown dirt on the back bumper—a small amount, really, but so _familiar_. His gut feeling would prove correct, then: Eldon would be a careful driver if only to avoid getting pulled over while storing a body in his trunk. Will paused, touched his finger to the little clump of dirt, and looked up to find that Eldon had stopped in his tracks, once more, to stare. Will brushed the soil from the bumper and headed for the passenger door, the earthy odor still in his nose. 

“Backseat.” 

Right. In case of traffic cameras. He scooted into the backseat on the side opposite Eldon, instead, so he could look at him while they spoke. _Assuming we’ll speak, anyway_. 

Eldon started the car, took off his light jacket, and dropped it into the seat beside him before reaching down into the footwell. When he straightened, he had a plain black baseball cap in his hand. He extended it wordlessly to Will, who took it without question or complaint, before untwisting to check his mirrors. 

_When was the last time I checked all of my mirrors_? Will asked himself, pulling the cap down low on his head, tucking the curls that stuck out on the sides behind his ears. 

Another minute spent executing Eldon’s pre-driving checklist, before he backed the car out of the driveway. 

Will’s lips pinched closed to keep the barrage of questions at bay. It would be easy enough to discuss their plans for the day on the ride over, but he knew that Eldon _needed _the quiet. Like with everything else, Eldon Stammets banked on routines and scripts to manage himself. This drive formed as much a part of his ritual, and he would find Will’s presence intrusive already.

_How does one form a routine of killing others,_ he wondered, _when already entrenched in their previous daily routine? _

What had spurred him to break pattern and start his garden, to take that first life? What had spurred him to give into impulse and kidnap Will when he saw him in the parking lot?

All questions to ask once they _came home _tonight. 

Once on the highway, Will became transfixed on the passing scenery, the way the reds, oranges, and yellows blurred together, taking on the appearance of a passing blaze, rising against the heavy, oppressive clouds above. It didn’t take long for the soft rumble of the engine and the monotony of the scenery to lull him to sleep. 

He woke to the sound of a chuckle from the front seat as the car slowed to a stop, caught Eldon peering at him from the rearview mirror. “In my defense,” he yawned, groggy still, “I didn’t sleep well last night.” 

True enough, and the laughter in Eldon’s eyes gave away that he knew it, too. 

They had pulled into a parking spot inside the park. A different one than the one Will had left his car in the day he found Eldon’s garden. No other cars were around and the roadway appeared rather run down. The sign for the trailhead had faded to almost illegibility, partially obscured by a handwritten sign on official park service letterhead, laminated and taped to the wood: trail no longer under service; proceed at your own risk. 

He blinked, taking a moment to process the sign. He felt disoriented, almost dizzy. His head buzzed, his blood ran hot in his veins. 

And then he looked at Eldon again, and the world seemed to come back into focus in a different way. As though the eyes through which he saw the world were not quite his own. 

Will ducked out of the car, his shoes crunching down on the dead leaves piled high over the crumbling asphalt. Eldon rooted through the trunk, the open lid obscuring his face. Will walked around to the back, to see the trunk, lined with plastic sheeting to protect the upholstery. Nearly black, the rich soil it contained had the potent scent of a compost-heavy mix. Fertile ground for the true cargo: the curled up body of a middle-aged woman, stripped bare, sickly pale but not waxy. If he looked closely, he could see the movement of her chest wall. Still alive. 

_How odd_, he thought, looking down at the body, watching it move, knowing it belonged to a person, and yet finding himself completely disconnected from that knowledge.

“We don’t have much time,” Eldon murmured, grabbing the ends of the sheeting and bringing them together in his hand. 

“Time?” Will asked, breaking his promise but unable to help himself. Had the few minutes of waiting for Will this morning set Eldon back on his schedule somehow?

“Before the storm breaks.” It took a moment for Will to process these words, but Eldon didn’t seem to expect a response. “There’s a wheelbarrow behind that tree there. Bring it over while I tie this up.” 

The wheelbarrow looked as though it would fall apart any moment, all rusted metal and weather-worn wood, but the wheel’s tread looked newer, and it moved smoothly, well-oiled. Will brought it to the car, and Eldon hoisted his cargo out of the trunk and into the wheelbarrow. It groaned beneath the weight, and the handles chafed at the palms of Will’s hands as he gripped it. 

He didn’t have to hold it for long. Eldon shut the trunk and took the handles from Will’s grasp. “Keep close,” Eldon instructed and took off into the wood at a brisk pace. 

This path—maybe from the change in seasons—seemed prettier than the one that had taken Will to the garden with his dogs in the summer. It looked wilder, for one, like a deer trail, which made the trek more effortful than the casual hike he’d undertaken in the company of his mutts. They passed a hollowed-out tree large enough for him to climb into; something he had not seen the last time.

_I’ll tell him tonight_, he decided, _that there’s more than one route to access it_. 

He shed his jacket and tied it around his waist before Eldon had even called over his shoulder that they’d passed the half-way point. Not as long a hike, in distance, but with the steepness of the hillside, the rough underbrush that required careful navigation, and the numerous other obstacles, he found himself sweating and panting along behind Eldon for the entire trek. 

By contrast, his captor moved at a steady clip, appearing mostly unphased by the physical challenge of the hike, even with what must be at least two hundred pounds of flesh, dirt, and metal in tow. Will had never considered Eldon fit—granted, he’d never considered much about the man’s physique at all—but he realized now that he must hide an impressive machine underneath his white coats. 

Lenny had a different shape to him. Compact, powerful. A sprinter’s body rather than a marathoner’s. But their forms mirrored their function, their preferred methods of capturing prey. Unlike Lenny, Eldon’s work all happened after the body lay limp and useless.

When they reached the garden, Will shed his t-shirt, draping it over the branch of a tree, hoping that even this chilly, damp breeze would help it dry out. Eldon, hyper-focused on his task, seemed the furthest thing from winded, breathing easily in his moisture-wicking polo and light windbreaker, though patches of sweat around his underarms and in a stripe down his back gave the proof of his exertion. 

Will had a moment to look around before Eldon got to work. What he saw filled him with a sweet nostalgia. The scent of summer, the buzz of cicadas, the warmth of the earth between his fingers, the contrasting coolness of the hand that protruded from the earth… No cicadas now, the trees browns and reds and golds instead, and the wind chilled his exposed skin, but the same ambiance. 

Still. 

Electrified. 

And lonely.

And then the flurry of movement began. One grave lay already excavated, the same one where he’d noted the harvested mushrooms when he first came. Eldon pushed the barrow up toward the grave and untied the corners of the plastic sheet. He hoisted the woman from the dirt and lowered her into the ground.

_How odd_, Will thought again.

After covering her limp body up to the hips with soil, Eldon reached off to the side to where one of the plastic breathing tubes, yellowed and dirty, hung beside a nearby tree. He gripped the end of the tubing in one hand and tilted her head back with the other into a position that Will recognized from the mandated CPR courses he’d taken as a police officer.

Eldon snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves, grabbed a piece of gauze, and popped open the woman’s mouth. The gauze provided some friction for him to be able to maneuver the tongue, pull it forward and out of the way so he could insert the tube. With that in place, the woman’s jaw remained parted, her lips slack around the tubing after he released her head back into the pit.

A flash of silver caught the sunlight as Eldon removed a needle from his kit. For the first time since he had set to work, he glanced up at Will. “Dissolvable sutures,” he explained before returning to his task. “To keep things tidy.”

None of Eldon’s fussiness in the treatment of Will's blisters presented itself here. His stitches were large and carelessly spaced. Just to keep her lips tight around the tube.

_The care is for the mushrooms._

The first task done, Eldon turned to the IV line. Will didn’t expect any explanation of the contents of the medicine bag, nor did he receive one. Eldon inserted the needle into the small veins on the woman’s hand, something done so quickly and expertly that Will couldn’t tamp his admiration.

He wanted to offer help, but he kept his mouth shut. This time, he had strict instructions to do nothing more than watch. Eldon wanted him to _see_, to truly understand.

A soft hand, delicate. It almost looked like a mushroom itself, the way the fingers arced, the wrist protruding from the soil a stalk rather than a limb. The pallor of her flesh, even, blended in with the rest of Eldon’s crop, and if it weren't for the French tips on her nails, she might have blended in entirely.

But then one of her fingers twitched, breaking the preternatural stillness of this little vignette. 

That little twitch hit him like a bucket of ice water to the face—and indeed, it had begun to drizzle and the little splashes chilling his skin, in concert with that unexpected movement, had the effect of breaking the trance-like state that he entered upon exiting Eldon’s car.

The women’s hand, momentarily spastic, wilted. Another fat droplet landed on his shoulder. His body ran cold; the sudden pressure of his teeth on his lip almost enough to draw blood.

_Wait for questions. Wait for questions. Wait for questions._

But even if he could ask nothing, he could come to some of his own conclusions. He could _see_ her, after all, now that he didn’t have Eldon’s perspective to filter the experience for him. The gently curved hand appeared soft, with manicured fingertips, prominent calluses on her middle finger and the heel of her palm. A writer's calluses, from a tripod grip. _An office worker maybe, someone who filled a lot of forms by hand?_ A slight tan line around her ring finger. _Possibly separated._ The fleeting view of her head, before the rich black soil obscured it from his vision, revealed loose platinum blonde barrel curls, no roots in sight, neatly trimmed, and yet so disheveled.

Not merely a body. A woman. Someone with a life and a job, dreams, and aspirations. 

Will’s stomach turned over. Bile rose in his throat. _What was her name? What has she done to deserve this?_

Eldon had revealed very little about his selection strategy. Will had some guesses, but he refused to make any assumptions about that. They’d need to discuss it. In detail. He took a step closer to see if he could make out any writing on the IV bag, but the clear plastic bore no markings.

A mix of Eldon’s own, then.

He took a deep, shuddering breath inward, and let it out on a count of five. Again, and then again. 

As Eldon finished covering the grave with soaked wood chips and sawdust, Will gave in to the urge to move away. He reached for his shirt and tugged it back on, then paced around the garden, taking slow steps to make it look as though examining it closer. But he kept his eyes trained on the ground, watching his footfalls, and his teeth clamped shut to prevent the barrage of questions and accusations from shouting their way out of his mouth.

The occasional droplet of rain became an intermittent drizzle. Eldon glanced up from his work once, to assess the state of the sky. He finished leveling the ground, strung up the IV, and then picked up a small bag of mushroom spawn to sprinkle along the surface. 

If Will trusted anything about his knowledge about Eldon, it would be this: the mushroom spawn had been his own cultivation, and he spread it out to allow a chance for wild spores to grow.

Only a few minutes into the drizzle and Eldon’s work concluded. He glanced over at Will before grabbing the wheelbarrow, empty now save for the plastic sheeting, and starting his trek back to the car. Will followed closely behind, still staring at the ground, hands balled into fists at his sides.

The car ride back preserved the quiet between them. Eldon seemed content, a smile on the corners of his lips, glancing at Will throughout the drive. His fingers on the steering wheel were clean, but once again dirt had worked its way beneath the crescents of his nails. The rain had disheveled his hair, soaked through the shoulders on his jacket. 

Objectively, Will could acknowledge that he made a handsome picture. Happiness suited him, and Will’s gut told him it Eldon experienced it infrequently. But right now, he couldn’t focus on anything but the seething rage building inside of him. 

_Wait_, he reprimanded himself with another measured breath. _Wait_. 

They got back to the house much faster than their drive out to the park, though Eldon still kept close to the speed limit for the entire trip. _The adrenaline must make his foot heavy._ When the car pulled to a stop in Eldon’s driveway, Will nearly catapulted himself from the backseat. He needed a moment to _breathe_. 

“I have to clean this up,” Eldon said. He motioned to the backseat. “And the trunk.”

Eldon must have cleaned it after the abduction if he felt a need to scrub it down now. This suited Will just fine: it afforded him a chance to cool down, alone. He jerked his thumb toward the house. “I’ll go take a shower, then.”

Keys exchanged hands. The lock clicked open, the sound echoing throughout the sparsely decorated home. For a moment, instead of feeling welcomed back, Will felt as though he’d marched into a jail cell. He squeezed his eyes shut, took another bracing breath, and then headed to the kitchen. 

Normally, the comfort of his dogs would ease his tension, soothe him. In their absence, a beer while the shower warmed up would have to do. He uncapped the bottle and carried it back to his bedroom. The door shut behind him, and this sound, unlike the front door not a few minutes before, comforted him. He ran the shower, sat down on the closed toilet lid, and chugged half of his beer. 

On a relatively empty stomach, and after this morning’s physical exertion, it went right to his head. 

His anger melted away, mystification taking its place. 

At first when he saw her, when he _looked _at her, his mind had remained silent. She had been a body, nothing more than a bag of meat and bones and blood. He looked at her face but couldn’t see her hopes, her feelings, her regrets. _This is how Eldon sees them._

He swallowed. 

It would be startlingly easy to kill _anybody _if they were but a physical object. As easy as stepping on a spider, or walking on grass. 

_I understood Eldon before this_, he reminded himself. _Knew he murdered them, understood why he did it_. The connection that only he could give them. The connection that only the mycelium could give them. After watching Eldon work, however, he could no longer pretend to have an emotional remove. Something in him rebelled. He could see and understand Eldon better, now more than ever, but he could also appreciate the holes in his ethics, in his morality. Absorb the graphic nature of what he had done and know that it did not align with Will Graham’s view of the world. 

This woman—whoever she was—couldn’t be just a blade of grass under his foot. A random body to fill a grave. Because Will Graham could _not_ see people as _other_. Victim or monster, he would always take a part of them and make it a part of himself. 

If this were _his _garden, whoever he chose to fill those graves would _deserve_ it. 

And that thought alone made him boil over again. A curse on his lips, he jammed the faucet as far left as it would go. The hot water scalded his skin, turned him lobster-red. It felt good, like he’d sanitized himself of the impulsivity of anger, sharpened the tool of his precise resentment. When the red haze faded from his vision, and that cold clarity stood firmly in its place, he stepped out from under the spray. He blotted the water from his skin with the serviceable towel that Eldon had left for him, squeezed the moisture from his hair into it, then wrapped it around his hips. His hands separated his curls, tweaking the one hanging over his forehead. 

When he pressed the bathroom door open, the steam poured out into the bedroom. 

The cloud cleared, and there sat Eldon, on the bed, hands folded in his lap, back erect, leg jogging up and down. Excitement rolled off of him in waves. _Victory_. 

The charm, the allure of Eldon’s excitement, so palpable in the air, threatened to draw him in. Will dropped his eyes, walked to the nightstand where Eldon had left the changes of clothes he brought for him. If Will didn’t look at Eldon, he wouldn’t see. He could maintain perspective.

With an impatient hand, he grabbed a pair of boxers, a plain white t-shirt, and the jeans that had been rolled up and tucked into the back of the drawer. He opted to head back into the bathroom, despite the humidity, to change. The denim stuck to his legs on the way up. A minor annoyance that set the anger back to the sharp edges of his teeth. 

Eldon moved while Will dressed, standing under the clock on the wall. Once more, his eyes dropped to Will’s naked feet, traced over the water spots around the collar of his shirt. 

_Remembering I’m human. _Will swallowed. _Because he needs the reminder._

“I’m ready now,” Eldon said, still staring. 

“Ready?”

“For what you want to know.”

But he appeared more than _ready_; he vibrated with eagerness. He wanted to hear Will’s impressions—expecting them to be favorable. He’d waited in his _bedroom_, for Christ’s sake. _Over_eager. The kind of overeager that made one skip things.

“Once you’ve cleaned your car, the ritual is over?” he asked, knowing it couldn’t end with that.

“Usually I eat,” Eldon confessed, and the contrition on his face almost endeared him to Will. 

Almost.

“Then we’ll eat.” Will said. He needed time.

“You’ll cook?” Eldon asked, as though it weren’t a foregone conclusion in his mind, a hopeful gleam in his eyes that _did_ endear him to Will, despite his rage. 

_He must be sick of his own cooking. _But Will would not let himself give in, no matter how charmed. “Your turn tonight,” he said. Eldon’s surprise at his refusal melted into suspicion, but he left Will in the little bedroom, and not a minute later the sounds of clattering pots echoed down the hall from the kitchen. 

Will sat unmoving on the bed, mired in indecision. He could not let this anger fester, but he also could not figure out how to put it to use. Eldon, much as he valued Will, much as he could allow emotion to lead him in their petty squabbles in the past few days, would not receive _Will’s _anger well. Eldon barely knew how to manage his own feelings. Without question, he would fumble at managing Will’s rage. 

“Will?” Eldon called, his confusion at Will’s absence evident.

He camouflaged the simmering cauldron of his ire as rationality. But the shield of apathy that he brandished as he sat alone in that bedroom grew leaden in his stomach the moment he stepped into the dining room and saw a single rose plunked into a half-full water glass in the middle of the table. 

“Were the neighbors nice about it?” he asked, still frozen in the threshold, studying the way the light and shadow defined the petals on the red bud. 

“She was surprised. Asked if I had a special friend over.” A glance up at Will then, as he left the question of his answer between them. Willing to answer, if only Will would ask. 

Instead, Will stepped through the invisible barrier that had kept him in place, heading to the table where Eldon had set the plates down. “Sandwiches?”

“Grilled cheese,” he said. He also served a side salad with the leftover bits of a cucumber, half an apple, and a handful or two of salad greens, but apparently deemed it not worth mentioning. 

_No mushrooms_? Eldon had brought another paper bag full of his freshly cultivated crop; it had occupied the front passenger seat on the drive home. But he hadn’t cooked with them. Will turned that over, fighting off his mind’s tendency to fit itself into the shadow cast by Eldon’s. To silence his sympathy, he took a bite of the sandwich. Surprisingly, “it’s good.”

The smile Eldon shot Will from across the table could blind the sun. 

They didn’t talk during the meal, but the food went down quickly enough for things not to get awkward. Not that prolonged silences were uncommon between them, but they didn’t usually sit so heavy. 

“Anything left in your routine?” Will asked once they had cleaned up the dishes and migrated to the living room. 

“That’s all,” Eldon said, a buoyancy in his voice that made him sound almost giddy. 

_Delighted that he’s gotten to share all of this with me. That I let him have his whole routine. _Will took a seat on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table, an unspoken offer for them to start another game. Eldon cleared the few pieces sitting on the Go board, and silence fell over them once again. 

They played the first few turns, Eldon’s eyes flitting up constantly to Will’s face, expectant. _Waiting_ for Will to begin their dialogue, to ask him his questions, to rehash and relive their afternoon together. And when Will said nothing and asked nothing, all the way through the mid-game, expectation turned into confusion. 

Eldon’s features screamed the question: _‘Why isn’t he saying anything?’_

Mind not fully engaged with the black and white tokens on the board, Will tapped out early. “Pass,” he said, though there were a number of potential moves he might have made to keep the game going. 

His captor looked at the board, brow furrowing. “You still have a chance,” he said. “If we call it now, you lose.”

_That’s not the game I’m playing_, Will reminded himself. “Pass,” he repeated.

“Okay,” Eldon said, starting to sort through the pieces, white tokens to one half of the board, black tokens to the other. Once the board sat clear, Eldon, still frowning, still confused, looked up at him again. “Another round?”

“I think I’m done,” Will sighed. He stood, knees creaking. “I’ll see you in the morning?” 

He pretended not to hear the pained noise that Eldon made behind him as he retreated to his room. 

The nightmares woke him a few times throughout the night. And when the clock passed three, and he’d soaked through his bedsheets and the spare towel that he’d laid over them, Will gave up on sleep. He stripped himself of his wet clothing, stripped the bed of the sodden sheets and lay down on the damp mattress protector. 

“What is it that’s bothering you about this?” he asked himself, in the dark. 

_Not the fact of the dead bodies_. Will knew that much. He’d been excited to see the garden again. Had been excited to witness Eldon’s process. _Knew_ what that process entailed. 

But like the template that Lenny Marron had set, Eldon’s didn’t feel like it fit him. He’d spent the time watching Eldon work, living it through Eldon’s eyes, and even though he could see the beauty in it, it didn’t fit him the way he’d thought it would. Not when he looked down at the woman’s hand and remembered that she was a person too. 

He could appreciate the result. The quiet garden in the forest, life borne from life, connections created that surpass cognition, surpass physical form. But the process… _That’s what’s bothering you_, he thought. He knew some things about her, but he didn’t know her. Didn’t know enough to make it not feel… maybe ‘unjust’ fit the sentiment best.

Then again, he didn’t know enough to make it _not_ that, either, did he?

He owed Eldon a chance to talk it through._ A chance to—_He sighed. _Connect_. 

He crawled out of bed a little after five, took a long shower, and dressed. He lay back down on the mattress and fell into another fitful doze until a little past seven. When he walked into the dining room, Eldon sat at the table, half-way through breakfast. 

“Morning.”

Eldon couldn’t hide his hurt, but he mumbled a greeting in kind. 

“I needed some time,” Will said. “But if you’re alright, can we talk it through after breakfast?” 

That suggestion went over well. The shine returned to Eldon’s dull eyes, and a soft smile conjured itself on his lips. For the next hour, as they ate and sipped coffee, things seemed to return to normal between them. They walked out to the living room and sat down at the Go board as usual. Eldon took a piece in each hand and held out two fists; Will gestured to the one on the left. 

“Black goes first,” Eldon said, setting the pieces back into their respective bowls.

Will decided not to let the silence manifest again. He felt too on edge after his ruminations this morning. “How do you pick them?” he asked, placing his first piece on the board.

A pause as Eldon played his opening move, and then, “diabetics.”

Will couldn’t stop himself. “That’s all?”

Eldon looked up, and some of the glow in his expression dimmed. “Yes.” After a moment, he amended, “Maybe I have a preference for the lonely-looking ones.”

They played a few more turns, Will turning that information over and over in his mind. One question in and Eldon had already confirmed the hypothesis that had kept Will up this morning. _It’s a crime_, he thought to himself. _It’s not justified. _There were at least thirty pieces on the board before Will had gathered himself enough to speak again. He took a moment to study the board. Still too early in the game to make any big plays, to push too aggressively at the nebulous outline of Eldon’s territory. “How do you take them?” 

Eldon kept his explanation simple. A medication swap explained it all. An adjusted dose of insulin. He already had their addresses, knew their schedules. He would time his lunch break, show up at their homes after they had taken the medication. They would already be down for the count. Easy pickings. 

Another silence as the game progressed between them, some boundaries solidifying as they added pieces to the board, some areas coming under contention. “The one—yesterday. What was her name?”

“Elena Cabbot.” 

“Kids?”

Eldon’s head tipped to the side. “I don’t know.”

For all that stalking formed part of the selection routine, he’d missed quite a big detail there. Will felt sick. He put another piece down, leaned back, controlled his breathing, and waited for Eldon to play his turn. But he felt—he still needed to see if Eldon —

“You’re going to get caught.”

“You’ve said that before.” Dismissive.

“And after yesterday, I’m more certain than ever.” 

Eldon’s hand flinched. He dropped his piece back into his bowl and turned the entirety of his focus to Will. “That’s what you have to say?” His voice came out calm, level, though not in the least hiding the magnitude of his disappointment. 

Will knew he must approach him softly. No matter how Will felt, Eldon had shared something intensely personal with him. He came into this exchange expecting praise rather than censure. He could lash out if Will stepped wrong. 

“What you do…” he let a little smile flit over his lips. Remembered the elegant line of Elena Cabbot’s fingers, the bend of her wrist, the profound contentment that filled that clearing when Eldon had finished, all pulled from his perception of the scene through Eldon’s eyes. _Focus on that_, he reminded himself. _Reach out_. “You give them something that they could never otherwise attain. You connect them to one another. And to you. And me now, too.”

Eldon smiled, though he seemed a little confused by that.

Unease dawned inside of Will’s chest, gnawing at him. 

“But you’re taking too much for granted, Eldon.” He paused, taking in the growing tension in Eldon’s jaw. Stick to practicalities for now. They could discuss the finer points another day. “There’s another trail that leads down to your garden. The one I followed when I went there with my dogs. It’s worn in. People are walking it regularly enough.” He set his fingers wide on the edge of the table. “Someone is going to find your garden and call it in.” 

The oppressive weight of _imminence_ settled on his shoulders; they didn’t have much time left. Now that he’d put the thought out into the universe, and more than once at that, it was only a matter of time before his prediction came true. 

“Any forensic evidence gets washed away with the rain,” Eldon said, dismissing his concerns the way Will knew he would. 

“Not the bodies,” Will argued. “They’ll look at those bodies and figure out who they are, and where they fill their prescriptions, and _who is the one filling them_.” 

Eldon shot to his feet. He opened his mouth, and then immediately seemed to lose steam, sinking back down into the couch again. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, if that ever happens. You’re not involved.”

The words were a slap across the cheek. “Eldon,” he said, a little heat entering his voice. “I _am _involved.”

“No,” Eldon argued. 

“I was there, too.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t turn you in. I brought you the wheelbarrow.”

“That doesn’t count,” Eldon spat back, the point too ridiculous to argue any further. 

Will took a fortifying breath. His chest felt hollow. Eldon’s confusion when Will had suggested that he’d connected Will now too—that made sudden sense. But he couldn’t accept the implication. And even if this conversation had begun to spiral, he needed to press the point. He needed to _know_. “Either way, you _want _to involve me. You’re _planning _to involve me.”

“_No_.” Eldon sounded so shocked by the suggestion that Will, who had been about to stand and bring himself closer, stopped. 

_Oh_. 

Their previous conversations played themselves out again in the back of his mind. Had Eldon ever said anything about his plans aloud? Or had Will inferred—his excitement skewing his perception? 

_Have I really read this wrong?_

“You only wanted me to see,” he realized aloud, unable to hide his disbelief. He swallowed, the movement of his throat clunky, painful. “You never wanted me to be a part of it.”

“You’re a part of it,” Eldon corrected. “But you’re not involved.”

“If that’s not splitting hairs.” Will gnawed on his tongue. _I can’t believe this_. How could he have misread this so badly…? 

“What I want… I thought you would understand.”

“I do,” Will argued. _Now I do_. “I understand.” 

His expectations had colored his interpretations of Eldon’s actions, of his words, so deeply that he had blinded himself to the truth. He shouldn’t have looked before, not when he so clearly lacked the objectivity to _see_. 

“Do you?” Eldon sounded subdued. _Betrayed._

Will’s lips parted to respond, but Eldon staggered to his feet once more, and after a long look, took himself off to his bedroom. The door, down the hallway, clicked closed loud enough to be audible in the living room. 

A trail of hurt and disappointment had followed Eldon on his exit.

Will collapsed over the Go board, pieces scattering left and right, a few falling onto the floor around the coffee table. 

Eldon wanted to connect, but he didn’t want a partner. He wanted—what? Not validation, either. Understanding. He wanted Will to see, from beginning to end and appreciate the process as well as the result. He wanted to be known, and he wanted Will to be the one that knew him. But he realized that Will had his own way of connecting and hadn’t wanted to tarnish it.

With a frustrated groan, Will collected the pieces and rearranged the board, returning the black and white tokens to their original places on the grid, exactly as they’d been before he knocked them off. He looked down at their arrangement for a long time, studied the walls and fortifications, the gaps between pieces, the liberties around endangered clusters of the black and white stones. 

He thought of Eldon, locked up in his bedroom. 

Will did not see him for the rest of the next day. At one point in the mid-afternoon, he knocked on Eldon’s door and received no answer. Listless, and torn between anger and regret, he wandered to the front door where his shoes and coat were stored. Eldon still kept his phone and his car keys hidden away, but those would be easy to replace.

He put his shoes on, and then stood, staring at his coat, hanging in the closet, for a long time. Eventually, he shrugged it on and turned to the front door. 

The door opened on silent hinges, and he stood, staring out into the dwindling sunlight at the suburban neighborhood in which Eldon lived. He missed his dogs. He missed his little house, like a boat on the water. He missed having his feet on familiar ground. Solid ground.

One step, and then another. 

He made it as far as the curb before he stopped, took a deep breath, turned, and made his way back to the house.

It became clear, when they stumbled into each other’s paths in the morning of Will’s eleventh day at Eldon’s house, that things had changed. Eldon seemed skittish, and while he’d never qualified as verbose, he seemed incapable of making any noise now. Even when he chewed over the pancakes and bacon he served for breakfast, he moved slowly, as though afraid that the slightest sound would alert Will to his presence. 

For Will’s part, he couldn’t seem to look anywhere but at Eldon. _I missed it_, he berated himself over and over. _I misread him. I missed it_. 

They spent the morning with Eldon avoiding Will, and Will doggedly chasing him down. 

He’d turned it over in his head a million times throughout the day. What could he say to make _Eldon_ understand in turn? Over lunch, however, he found his answer. Despite the evasive maneuvering, Eldon had continued to stick to his usual schedule. And, at least recently, that schedule included a post-prandial game of Go. The pieces he had replaced on the board the other night remained unmoved. 

Will settled himself on the floor on the other side of the coffee table and looked up at Eldon, not bothering to try to mask the hope, the expectation, that bubbled up within him. 

Eldon, reluctant and still avoiding Will’s gaze, scooted forward on the couch to lean over the board.

They hadn’t gotten very far. Some rough boundaries had been sketched out in different areas on the board, and Eldon had started some inroads on attacking Will’s holdings in the left corner on the side closest to Will. It had been Eldon’s turn when they had stopped before; he remembered, of course, and plucked one of his stones to set it down beside one of Will’s.

A challenge. 

Combined with the other pieces in the area, a very clear challenge. 

But while Will played a strategy game with black and white pieces on that square grid, another game of flesh and blood also occupied his attention. 

A symbolic gesture, but one he hoped Eldon would interpret correctly. _Go forces you to decide which problems need solving. _

Will picked up his white piece, hovered it over the area that Eldon implied he would contest, and then put it down in a different field altogether, in a spot that would hopefully, eventually, connect two loosely grouped sets of pieces on the opposite side of the board. 

Eldon’s lips tightened—_pinched_—and then relaxed. He chanced a look up at Will, and whatever he saw there must have appeased him because his own facial expression softened. “That’s called tenuki,” he said. 

“Hm?” Will asked, unable to process the words for the profundity of his relief.

“Tenuki,” Eldon repeated. “Not answering my last move and getting locked into a local fight, but instead adding a move on another part of the board.” He paused. “Means, ‘to draw your hand back’. You’re picking your battles, Will?”

Tenuki. A word he would want to remember; it embodied his approach to many of the problems that faced him. A thought for another time. Now, he felt overcome by the joy that his little move had had its intended effect.

“I wasn’t battling you in the first place,” Will said. A little lie. He’d been angry, and in many ways, he’d been spoiling for a fight. There were things he still wanted to yell at the man for. His carelessness. His lack of awareness of his victims. But he’d not gone into that conversation wanting it to end the way it had. “It’s more of an...” he sighed. “An apology.”

For pretense’s sake, Eldon picked up another piece, but he clearly had no intention of playing it. Not with the way he leaned back away from the board, his free hand on his thigh. With a lax grip on the stone, he rubbed his thumb back and forth over the glass surface; an absent-minded gesture that said his mind had traveled miles away from the board game in front of them.

When he spoke, at last, his voice came out small, hopeful. The shine in his eyes returned, the sparkling expectation in his expression when they sat down to play the day before last, after interring a living human being. The desire for praise. “Did you like it?”

In that moment, he reminded Will of Buster, ripping through the house with the rabbit’s carcass between his teeth, dropping it at Will’s feet with his tail wagging, waiting for his reward. Back then, how had he handled it? He didn’t want to encourage the little mutt to bring dead animals into the house, but how could he deny Buster his enthusiasm when he’d only done what his instincts had led him to do? 

“There’s a poetry to it,” he said, but his voice carried a note of reluctance that kept Eldon from beaming outright. “I thought so back then, too.”

Eldon’s face had dropped into a neutral expression. He played his piece. “But.”

“I saw your garden, and I saw _you_. But it’s not just you, Eldon,” he said, words faltering a little. “I connect with—with everyone. I look at them and I know.”

Will leaned forward. Eldon leaned back; behind his lenses, his eyes grew wider, and the hand resting on his knee tightened. 

“You looked at Elena Cabbot, and what did you see?” Will waited a beat, but Eldon said nothing. So he related the details he had noticed about her, and the inferences he’d made about them. “I saw her for half a minute and she became more than substrate to me.”

Eldon’s eyes grew luminous again. That nearly tear-filled look, that awed look that Will had seen before, but never _like this. _“No,” he corrected. “She _was_ substrate to you.”

It took a second for Will to decipher the meaning there. “I’m not a mushroom, Eldon.”

“You do what they can.”

“Not—not _physically._” He swallowed. “Not with reciprocity.”

The words seemed to sting Eldon, but the displeasure, the anger, the betrayal of the day before did not manifest. But then some kind of resolution lit in the pools of Eldon’s eyes, and Will felt something dark wrap around his heart, a cold that clutched at him from the inside. “I’m reaching out,” Eldon said. “You could reach back.”

_Oh, no_. Dangerous ground. He’d stumbled on dangerous ground.

But Eldon must have picked up on Will’s inquietude at that little declaration. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbled, dropping his own eyes to the Go board, all but forgotten between them.

Will scrubbed a hand over his face and then returning to their previous subject of discussion. “It might help if—if you told me a bit about her. Elena.”

White glass go piece held aloft between his fingers, Eldon considered the board. “She yelled at the pharmacy techs,” he said, settling the token down to occupy the liberty where Will _should_ have placed his own solider if he had not committed that little act of _tenuki_ and moved to a different battle. Which meant Will had lost his advantage there; that group of stones would be harder to connect to the main line of his territory. Given a few turns, Eldon would imprison the lot.

Will stared unseeing at the board. 

“She rear-ended another car in the lot and didn’t leave her insurance information,” Eldon added, as Will picked a piece from his bowl. 

Will forfeited the group, playing a different field. Six turns later, the sound of black go pieces landing in the upturned lid of Eldon’s bowl, like many prisoners captured, marked the end of that particular battle. 

Things returned more or less to normal after that. Periodically, Will would catch Eldon staring at him, something charged in his expression. _I’m reaching out. You could reach back._ The words seemed to pour out from his every gesture, his every glance. He kept his distance still, but he targeted a focus on Will that made him feel like a smear under a microscope.

That continued into the next morning. Will stole some alone time in the afternoon, for his fortieth read-through of Log of a Cowboy—he really ought to ask Eldon for a new book, but he found something comforting in the monotony of its now-familiar passages.

As the sun went down, Will walked into the kitchen. Eldon stood at the kitchen counter, fiddling with his paper bag of mushrooms. Not so fresh anymore, but still precious. He looked up at Will, and, almost bashful, extended the bag. “Would you?” he asked. 

_Endearing. _

In lieu of a verbal answer, Will gave him a lop-sided smile and took the bag from Eldon’s hands. He set it back down on the counter and stepped to the fridge. He picked through its contents, and found himself reaching for a different sort of apology: a block of fontina cheese and some parsley, and then, rooted out from the spice cabinet, a bottle of sage. 

Eldon had made him a plain grilled cheese, the night Will had declined to cook. He’d do him one better. 

He turned on the small CRT TV on the counter in the corner for some noise while he cooked, and in the dining room, Eldon bustled about, setting the table, pouring out two beers into glasses he’d stored to chill in the freezer and finding other ways to expend his energy.

Instead of pushing the dishes across via the pass-through, Will grabbed the two plates and walked around into the dining room, carrying them with him. “Mushroom, fontina, and sage grilled cheese,” he said, setting the plates down on the table. Eldon chuckled. Their single-flower centerpiece, absent since their argument, had been returned to the space on the tabletop between them. “Let me turn the TV off,” he said. “Dig in if you like.”

The small, square tube had no remote; he only made it half-way across the kitchen before he keyed in to the content of the newscast projecting through its pixels. 

Leanne Steele’s voice, clear despite the low volume, reverberated through the air, and Will’s feet drew to a stop. 

He stood, watching and listening, horrified and transfixed. 

“—where the young hikers found _nine graves_,” she said, a picture of a familiar garden flashing on the screen, “overgrown with mushrooms. Police have handed the case off to FBI agent Jack Crawford and his team—”

“Eldon,” he called, mouth a desert. 

“—for more updates. Stay tuned.”

With a shaking finger, he pushed the power button. He turned to face Eldon through the pass-through, to find his captor still sitting at the table, unmoved except for the pucker in his brow. “You heard?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?” Will asked, voice creaking from his parched throat. 

“Well…” Eldon paused to consider. “First, I’m going to finish lunch. Sit down and eat, Will, before it gets cold.”

The oppressive weight of _imminence_ settled once more on his shoulders; it was only a matter of time before they were caught.

But Will, still reeling and not knowing what else to do, said nothing and followed Eldon’s instructions. 

-+-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry this has been so late. I've been pretty dead with migraines this last month. It's been Mizumono Weather constantly. So terrible. 
> 
> And because of the lateness, can you believe that we've passed our one-year anniversary? We have! It's been one whole year since the beginning of this fic. (Since I update every two weeks, we're right on time with 26 chapters, too, so all the earlies and latenesses even out overall!) I have to think of something fun to celebrate. Accepting suggestions.
> 
> On the subject of lateness, I should let you know that I am going to be out of commission for a surgery at the end of the month. That means no Consequence updates until November, as I'll be recovering. If you want more details about the update schedule, I'll have more information up as soon as I get it on the discord server. Which brings me to...
> 
> A reminder that we have a discord server (which, if you're a legal adult, you can join **[here](https://discord.gg/ggrSkHB)**)! Here's an enticement written by one of the server members, urging you to join us:  
Come join us in our 18+ discord to yell about Ahh Coc and gush about Hannibal's stupid forearms, Will Graham's perfect face and growing murder harem 24/7. We get chapter previews, recommend fanfiction, share memes, prompts and shitpost like our lives depend on it. You can also decide Will and Hannibal's fates by voting on their choices for our Interactive Story Time, written by ironlotus. We're in the middle of an epic Time Travel that might go sideways without your help! D:

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Consequence of Consumption](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25485073) by [Spark_Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spark_Fly/pseuds/Spark_Fly)
  * [meditation of the heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26770039) by [MaddieContrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieContrary/pseuds/MaddieContrary)
  * [One Down, Six to Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775442) by [Kai_99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kai_99/pseuds/Kai_99)


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